


Exulansis

by Wheat From Chaff (wheatfromchaff)



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Borderlands Big Bang 2017, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-BL2, Prostitution, as always, borderline dub-con based around mistaken identity, post-tftbl, spoilers for both
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2017-12-06
Packaged: 2019-02-10 06:39:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 45,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12906288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheatfromchaff/pseuds/Wheat%20From%20Chaff
Summary: exulansisn.the tendency to give up trying to talk about an experience because people are unable to relate to it—whether through envy or pity or simple foreignness—which allows it to drift away from the rest of your life story, until the memory itself feels out of place, almost mythical, wandering restlessly in the fog, no longer even looking for a place to land. -The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows--Five years ago, Rhys spent the night of his dreams with his number one celebrity crush, Handsome Jack. But the next time he meets his idol, Handsome Jack doesn't seem to remember him at all.Broken and alone after the fall of Helios, Rhys finds something he always knew he wanted but could never admit to himself: one of Handsome Jack's doppelgangers, working as a prostitute. Now, Rhys can live out all of his fantasies, and maybe work out some of the uglier feelings that experience had left him with.





	1. Lachesism

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Borderlands Big Bang 2017!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **lachesism**  
>  _n._ the desire to be struck by disaster—to survive a plane crash, to lose everything in a fire, to plunge over a waterfall—which would put a kink in the smooth arc of your life, and forge it into something hardened and flexible and sharp, not just a stiff prefabricated beam that barely covers the gap between one end of your life and the other. - _[The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows](http://www.dictionaryofobscuresorrows.com/post/64620271186/lachesism)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for some dubious consent based around mistaken identity.

A lot of Rhys’ fantasies started out this way. The longer ones, when he could take his time, because he knew his roommate would be out for a while. When he was feeling particularly indulgent. They started like any good pulp serial would: with peril. Bad guys would find him. Maybe they’d call him cute. Maybe his shirt would get ripped a little. They’d hold him up like a trophy, hold him close to their smiling, open mouths, and show off their shiny gold teeth. Bad guys always have gold teeth.

It should’ve been a routine visit. A tour for the new kids to see just what Hyperion was capable of, the miracles it could manufacture in their factory of dreams, right up close and personal on a planet-side trip to one of their research and development compounds. Rhys had come down with the other new hires, not because he was particularly interested in seeing the sort of things Hyperion could do with eridium, but because Mr. Qing would be the tour leader, and Mr. Qing was the first rung in the long, long ladder.

Qing had told Rhys in person about the trip. He’d come all the way down to the bank of desks Rhys shared with all the other code monkey underlings. He’d told Rhys it would be interesting.

Rhys had put his hands on his lap, leaned forward just a little, and smiled up at his manager, all wide eyed, golly gee enthusiasm and said _If you think it’s interesting, it must be good_.

Mr. Qing had turned pink and cleared his throat and stared down at Rhys’ long, lovely neck and said, _Well_.

 It was almost insulting, just how easy this would be. Qing was low on the totem pole for a reason. He would’ve lost his shirt in a game of poker. He was good practise for Rhys, something to sharpen his teeth on, and not for much else. Rhys planned to catch his eye during the visit, make him sweat. Have him for breakfast.

That had been the idea, anyway. But during the tour, the building rumbled, and the PA crackled to life, and a voice told them to evacuate in an orderly fashion while the air filled with the popcorn sound of guns firing in another room. Their group didn’t make it far. Bandits streamed through the halls like a tide of teeth and metal, and they sent the employees back, away from the doors and the windows. They herded them like cattle into the largest room they could find, an empty cage for some colony of killer monsters.

The bandits made an unholy racket, stomping their feet and hollering like bad neighbours on New Years Eve. They had colourful bandannas around their arms and necks, guns in their hands and on their backs, and a mad gleam in every single eye, a shared delusion that sparked between them.

Rhys knew them, although he couldn’t say what their gang affiliation might’ve been. He didn’t recognize their faces, but he _knew_ them.

Those fantasies of Rhys’ were informed, in part, by reality. He’d seen enough of Hyperion’s propaganda vids to know a thing or two about the horrible conditions of the borderlands, and about the people who made it so horrible. The people with more bullets than braincells, more froth than teeth in their mouths, more air than sense in their heads.

Rhys tried to find that comforting as the biggest and craziest of the bandits entered the room and fired her gun to the ceiling. She was the leader, or so Rhys assumed. She was certainly the loudest. She announced that her name was Machine Gun Betty, a name she likely shared with a dozen others, scattered across the galaxy. More a job description than a name, really. She demanded to speak to the person in charge, and everyone pushed someone else forward. Rhys hung back as best he could, until he could feel the wall at his back.

Betty told them all that Hyperion had outstayed its welcome on Eris. She told them all that the borderlands didn’t need any more vultures picking at their planet’s corpse. That they’d been bled dry and left to rot and enough was enough. That Hyperion stole and stole and stole until there was nothing left for those they exploited to make their profit. Her face twisted as she talked. That mad gleam like an ember in a burned down warehouse. Rhys pushed himself back until he could barely see her through the forest of heads and shoulders in front of him.

Betty explained her position at length. She wanted to kill every stuffed shirt at Hyperion. She wanted them to come out one by one. She plotted out their future like a fortune teller laying down cards. She would execute them. She would destroy the factory. She would steal the money, the guns, and everything worth a damn. It wouldn’t make up for what Hyperion took, not quite an eye for an eye, but it was a start.

“I got this place sealed up tight. I been waitin’ for months to do this. Hyperion won’t do a goddamn thing,” she went on, voice rising with triumph. She yanked one of the best dressed people from the crowd, a woman in a nice suit, with an expensive hairstyle, a look that had once made her look as sleek as the blade of a knife. She wept as the bandit queen held her arm in her vice grip. Betty looked around, as if waiting for someone to step in and protest.

“Buncha cowards,” she said, jabbing the gun into the weeping woman’s side. “The whole lot of ya.”

The building shook again. Dust rained down from on high. The bandit queen looked up, blinking away the dirt. Something rumbled, a distant roar, a sound like a movie monster coming close, and then the building shook again.

The bandits looked around at each other. A few of them talked into their ECHOs. Betty hissed something to the bandit standing beside her.

“I don’t care,” she said, voice rising to its previous volume. “I don’t care if it’s an army. I don’t care if they sent Handsome fucking Jack himself. Secure the fucking area or you’re fired and then murdered!”

This was how Rhys’ fantasies went. Bandits running scared, panicked and out of their minds, like in the vids. The building shaking like a dollhouse in the arms of an excitable child. The sound and the fury, retribution coming close.

Rhys held his breath and watched as the bad guys started to lose control. As they ran from the room in small groups, with their leader barking orders at their backs. As if they weren’t fighting a hopeless cause. As if they hadn’t been dead the second they picked a fight they couldn’t win.

Rhys’ heart still pounded, his hands still shook, but he could feel it when the tide changed and their luck turned. He could feel it, even before he heard the desperate shouts of the last bandit guards just outside their doors. He knew, even before the doors snapped open to reveal the red carnage on the other side, just who he’d see striding inside like the conquering hero.

Handsome goddamn Jack himself.

* * *

For years to come, Rhys would have trouble remembering just exactly what happened next. Near as he could figure, it went like this:

Handsome Jack’s arrival changed things in the cage. Hope spread like a wildfire in a drought and what had once seemed like the grim certainty of death had become like a movie they were all watching. Easy to think of things playing out like this, as if orchestrated by some higher power, a person in a director’s chair, just ready to call ‘cut!’ once the last bandit died. Rhys didn’t relax, exactly, but he couldn’t feel death breathing down his neck anymore. Maybe it made him a little stupid.

Because he forgot what he should’ve been doing. He pushed forward, just barely aware of everyone else, driven by the urge to get close. He wanted to see what Handsome Jack’s face looked like when he pulled the trigger. What victory looked like up close.

He got to the front of the crowd, where the crowd of nameless lackeys, his co-workers, had thinned out. He felt like he was coming to a clearing in a fairytale forest, where he’d find Prince Charming.

This was how Rhys’ fantasies went: Handsome Jack, covered in blood, like he’d killed each person with his bare hands. Arterial spray up the side of his neck, on his face, when he popped one in the neck. He’d got it on his jeans, splashed up his boots, like he’d gone wading through a river of it. Like he’d come fresh from another massacre, his schedule filled with one fire fight after the other.

This close, Rhys could hear him.

“You might wanna sit back—” Knocked one on the head with the butt of his pistol, letting the empty clip fall with a clatter, reloading with a smooth manoeuvre. “—and think this one through, princess. You might wanna reconsider—” Another hit, a kick at a soon-to-be-corpse’s grasping hand, a bandit pawing at his legs. “—what your goals are here.” He pulled the trigger and the hand fell away.

“Shut up! Just shut up!” You could say Betty had lost her mind, but there wasn’t much to lose in the first place. Rhys had seen that gleam, that ember, now sparked to a full flame. “You won’t finish this! You hear me? You won’t—!”

She should’ve died there. That would’ve been poetic. But she cut herself off, not because Handsome Jack was trying to kill her but because she’d been stalling and her time was up. Rhys saw it, saw her hand behind her back, saw the shiny curve of a detonator clutched between her fingers.

Everyone was looking at Handsome Jack. Rhys couldn’t say why he wasn’t among them. Maybe he was just smarter than the others. Or maybe fortune had picked that day, that very second, to smile on him. Nudge him.

This was where things got blurry. Looking back, Rhys would try to remember what he shouted. He only hoped it’d been coherent. It’d been enough to catch their attention. He would try to remember just what the hell he’d been thinking. If he ran forward or if someone pushed him through the fourth wall and into the screen, where the movie spooled out in bright and vivid colour. Someone must’ve pushed him. That would explain why Rhys’d stumbled, why he’d hit the ground.

The next part he can recall very clearly.

Betty turned on him, her expression twisted. She seemed to grow bigger, inflated with her own sense of justice, revenge and rage making her monstrous, powerful. She plucked him from the ground and held his neck like the stem of a flower. It only took her one hand to keep him like that. She raised her gun in her other one.

Maybe she still had the detonator in that hand. Maybe she’d dropped it. Maybe Rhys had actually accomplished something. He didn’t see it. He couldn’t see a single, blessed thing beyond that pistol and the bullet nestled in the barrel, looking him in the eye like an old friend who’d lost touch. He closed his eyes, because he he’d rather the last thing he looked at be the back of his eyelids rather than some bandit’s gun.

He flinched when he heard the crack of a bullet, his whole body shaking like he’d been submerged into the north sea. Something warm splashed his face, his neck and all down his chest. Salt and metal in his mouth, smelled it like his sinuses had been painted with it.

She dropped him to his feet, but his legs couldn’t hold his weight. He landed on his ass, knocking the air out of him. He wasn’t dead. Somehow, he’d entered the story and _survived_. Teeth chattering, he managed to open his eyes at last.

He saw a woman on the ground with a hole in her head, her open eyes fixed on nothing. He looked up and found Handsome Jack standing above him, his gun in one hand and the curved detonator in the other. He looked down at Rhys.

“Not bad, kiddo,” he said. And then he smiled.

Rhys could’ve died then and there. A part of him was convinced that he had.

* * *

Everyone’s got a shot in this galaxy. Not everyone starts out the same, not everyone has the same amount in their pockets, but sooner or later, everyone gets their turn at the wheel. To place their bets. Hope for luck.

There was a storm somewhere in the atmo. Something to keep the evac ships from making landfall. That left all the Hyperion lackeys stuck on Eris. Stuck for the night, maybe for longer, until the solar storm or the divine intervention cleared. If there’d been any real danger, maybe they would’ve risked it. But those evac ships were worth more than a batch of milk-fed kids barely out of whatever fancy university they’d gotten into debt to attend.

There were temporary quarters for them to share. The compound was meant for the employees to spend their whole days and nights in; everything the average employee could ever want in one place.

Rhys and the other peons got sent to the run-down dormitories they sent all the newbies to, where the walls had dents, and the floors had stains from old spills, and the beds creaked. The whole set up looked like a prison cell to Rhys, except in prison you only had one bunkmate. Here, he had 8 others. The whole room smelled like other peoples’ dirty laundry.

The others complained. Their nerves were already fried, the day’s excitement had left them all scraped raw. Rhys wasn’t above it by any means, but he didn’t join in with their bitching session. He had other things on his mind.

Rhys didn’t intend to spend his night there.

The compound was alive with activity. Clean-up crews loaded down with crates of damaged product, with palettes of broken machinery, with soaking mops trailing suds and pink water behind them like a snail trail. With body bags.

As if in complement, there was another group making a fuss, generating nervous energy. They were setting up a dining hall, arranging a meal, and scrounging up every last drop of alcohol in this heap. There was going to be a celebration. Handsome Jack had won the day. Time to party.

Rhys had been excused from the proceedings. No one had out and said it to him, but no one had asked him to pitch in, either, and that was as good as a free pass as he was going to get in Hyperion. A rare show of sympathy, no doubt coming from Qing, who had come by to their stinking dormitories to personally ask after Rhys.

“I’m fine,” Rhys had told him.

Qing looked at him with concern, his mouth drawn tight. Lowest on the ladder, Rhys thought.

“Today was not supposed to be so… exciting. No one would blame you if you felt…” Qing trailed off, let the way his brows had crunched together and the soft, camp counsellor tone of his voice he used speak for itself. No one would blame Rhys for being upset. For being frightened.

 _Rhys_ wouldn’t blame Rhys for being upset. He’d certainly been terrified before, although it was hard to remember now. It didn’t feel real. It hadn’t felt real when it was happening to him. He still felt as if he were in a movie theatre, waiting for the lights to come up.

Except if it was a movie, then he’d been an actor. He’d been on set. He could still feel the way his wet, heavy shirt had peeled off his chest. Still see his discarded clothes, wadded up into a ball and tossed into a hamper. He could still picture the way the water had turned pink as it ran off his face, his shoulders. He could still smell it on him.

If this was a movie, he knew how he wanted it to end. He’d been lucky so far. He wanted to see how far his luck would go.

“I’m fine,” he said again. He gave Qing the same smile he used to give his professors after he handed in a project, back in the days when he’d wear the dark circles under his eyes like badges of honour. When he wanted all of his hard work to show.

Look at me. Look at how brave and fragile and good I am. Rhys didn’t even have to pretend to tremble. It all came to him naturally.

“Well, if you’re sure. Will you be able to come out for dinner?” Qing asked.

Where would Handsome Jack be, right now? Would he join them for the dinner they were throwing in his honour? Hard to say. Everyone in the company knew he loved attention, but he could be awfully picky about how he received it. He might think a party with a bunch of nobodies to be beneath him.

 _Beneath him_. Rhys bit his lip, tried to suppress the warmth stirring in his stomach at those words. Don’t get ahead of yourself, Rhys.

“I don’t know. I don’t… know if I’m hungry,” Rhys lied.

Qing patted him on the shoulder and told him to take all the time he needed.

Somebody had donated Rhys some clean clothes: a too-big white t-shirt and a pair of too-short grey sweats. They were clean, at least, but that was all Rhys could say about them. They were certainly a far cry from what Rhys would choose to wear, if he had his druthers, and his wardrobe at his disposal. He’d wear blue if he could. He liked the way blue brought out the glow of his cybernetic, complimented the yellow of his arm. Something slim cut, to emphasize the length of his legs. People loved to look at his long legs. Rhys imagined they liked to imagine them wrapped around their hips. Oh well.

If this was going to be it, Rhys wasn’t going to let something as insignificant as a bad outfit stand in his way.

The bodies had been removed and the party had begun by the time the sun had started to dip under the northern horizon. Rhys could hear voices in the dining hall, and the music start up. He didn’t bother wasting time going inside. Someone might try to stop him if they saw him. Ask him questions. _How’d it feel, new blood? You doing okay?_

He didn’t want to get caught up in someone else’s action, didn’t want to become a prop in someone else’s story. The brave, wounded new employee they could take under their wing. That was how it went down in Hyperion. If you couldn’t close the deal yourself, you could tell the story and make it yours.

He scurried past the hall, past the propped open doors, his ECHOeye activating with a blue glow. If they got him to stay, got him to slow down, even for a second, he might miss it. It could pass him right by.

Worse: he might lose his nerve.

The ECHOeye still hurt when he used it, even though it’d been half a year since he’d gotten it installed. The doctors had told him that was normal, expected for the first 18 months. Most people didn’t bother with the eye for that reason. They stuck with the brain implant, but Rhys had plans. Rhys had a vision. The dull throb of pain it produced every time he activated its higher functions was nothing, not in the long run. He always kept his sights on the future. He played the long game.

It wasn’t hard to get into the compound’s systems, get his eyes into their cameras. He scanned the feed inside the hall, just in case, but as he suspected, there was no one inside except for a hundred of his co-workers. Might as well’ve been cardboard cut-outs. Rhys looked on.

He found himself a quiet spot between two grey and yellow buildings while he looked through recent history. He found the moment of Handsome Jack’s arrival, the moment he broke through their make-shift defences, and followed him from there. He watched it play out as a real movie this time, albeit on fast-forward, until he found his own self in the past-tense, penned in with the rest of the saps.

He looked good. Scared, but good. He didn’t look so good when he pushed his way forward and fell on his knees. Rhys winced.

He saw what he’d closed his eyes on before. The queen holding him and then her head going pop, punctured like a balloon filled with warm water. He swallowed hard, and then he swallowed again, his mouth suddenly running with saliva, a sick feeling that coiled up from his stomach and into his throat. He swallowed a third time. He wouldn’t throw up here, not again. That really would be game over.

He stalked Handsome Jack as he stood around looking bored as people earning three times as much as Rhys did in a year thanked him. One looked as if she were going to grab his hand to shake. More than one turned on the water works. They practically got on their knees for him.

Rhys swallowed again. That sick feeling had all but vanished.

And then he found him.

* * *

Handsome Jack had retreated from the crowds for some privacy, or so Rhys assumed. He’d grabbed something from the kitchens while they were still buzzing with activity, almost too busy to notice him, and then he’d fled from what would be considered the main street if this compound had actually been a town.

He went to the furthest edge of the factory, right out to the northern loading docks, where loaders would’ve been busy with prepping shipments, or receiving new packages from the home base, had they not been recalled to assist with cleaning.

He sat out on the lip of the dock, shielded from the camera’s view by a shipping crate. Rhys checked and double checked as he ran, but Handsome Jack didn’t move from that spot.

Rhys slowed down as he approached. Sound could travel out here and the slip-ons they’d given him slapped with each ringing step on the metal surface. He approached Handsome Jack the way he might approach some holy temple. Quietly, with some reverence.

Handsome Jack was there, seated with his back to Rhys and his legs dangling off the ledge. His head was bowed, held by both hands, fingers buried in his thick hair. He looked like the ‘before’ actor in a headache medicine commercial. He stayed like that while Rhys watched him, long seconds between drawing breath. Rhys could smell the cigarette smoke from where he stood.

Rhys hung back for a while, trying to think. Waiting for something. A sign, maybe. Or inspiration to hit him. He tried to rehearse what he would say. Hadn’t he imagined this very meeting for months now? Years, even? How long had he had his eyes on Handsome Jack? On the man on the golden throne? The most powerful man in six galaxies.

Thinking about him in those terms did funny things to Rhys’ insides. It made him want to slink away. It made him want to get on his knees. His mouth crowded with things he wanted to say. He felt choked off.

He cleared his throat.

Handsome Jack moved with the kind of fluid grace that could make a ballerina turn green. He was half-risen, one hand on his pistol faster than Rhys could blink. The look he turned on Rhys made his blood run cold. He looked like the sort of man prepared to kill without a second thought, and Rhys had never considered just how cold that could make a person. Handsome Jack wasn’t an actor, even though Rhys saw him on the screen. He was a killer.

The sound of that pop echoed in his head, the feeling of that warm spray, like summer rain on his face, neck, chest.

Handsome Jack relaxed.

“Fuck me, kid.” He let his hand drop from his holster. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, sneaking around out here?” His eyes narrowed. “Did they send you to find me?”

“No,” Rhys said. And then he realised that would be the first thing he ever said to Handsome Jack, forever. “No one sent me.” That too.

He tried to recover, but his thoughts had left him. Packed up and fled in the face of that look, in the mess he found himself in now.

Handsome Jack pushed one hand through his styled hair. He looked sideways, away from Rhys’ face as he brought his cigarette up for another drag. Rhys wondered if that was a sign, and then decided that it was. He took a few steps closer, and then a few more when Handsome Jack didn’t snap at him.

“You’re that kid from before, aren’t you?” He looked him over. “The one who got me wise to the detonator. You saved my skin.”

Rhys beamed. He didn’t even try to stop it. Something in Handsome Jack’s face went soft at the sight of it.

“You remember me?”

“You sort of stand out, roboboy. Nice eye, by the way.”

It was a nice eye. Rhys preened.

“Is this okay?” he asked even as he settled down beside him. Handsome Jack lifted one shoulder in response.

“Jesus, they gave you a hole in your head too, huh. Where’d you get it?” he asked, nodding towards Rhys’ temple.

Rhys tapped it, feeling the same curious mixture of proud and self-conscious that he always felt when his implants came up. “Hyperion. It’s all Hyperion. The eye, the port… I had to get some brain implants done for the arm,” he said, gesturing with his right arm. To Rhys’ surprise, Handsome Jack’s expression twisted.

“They cut into your _brain_? And you let them?”

“Uh. Yeah,” he said, taken aback. “It’s necessary for any cybernetic limb.” His brows furrowed. “You don’t know that?”

Something flickered in Handsome Jack’s expression, too quick for Rhys to spot. “I don’t really pay attention to that stuff,” he said. “And the eye? You needed that too?”

“Oh.” Rhys touched his brow with the tips of his fingers. “No. I just got the eye because I knew it would be cool.” And he’d been exactly right. “It gives me an edge in datamining. You know, lets me access computers and databases more quickly. Gives me better interfacing options with the programs I work with. That sort of thing.”

Handsome Jack stared at Rhys. “You let them take your _eye_?”

For the first time in a while, Rhys could feel his face growing warm. “It gives me an edge,” he repeated, maybe a little too defensively. “It’s cool. There’s nothing wrong with it.”

Handsome Jack opened his mouth but he didn’t speak. He closed it a moment later, and looked away, shaking his head. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess people have done a lot worse to themselves.”

Rhys blinked, caught a little off guard by the sudden shift in his tone. As far as he was concerned, he hadn’t done anything horrible to himself. He’d improved himself. Was that so bad?

“What’s your name?” Handsome Jack asked.

“Rhys.”

“Something in particular bring you out here, Rhys?”

Rhys’ legs dangled off the edge. He could see the cresting waves a scant ten feet below. He could hear them slap against the dock poles. He felt like he’d snuck into the VIP section of the hottest club. The hard part wasn’t over with yet, but he’d gotten through a tough scene. He could afford to relax, just a little.

“You did,” he said, deciding honesty was the best way forward.

Handsome Jack smiled without looking at him. It didn’t move his face much. He took another drag.

“I wanted to thank you,” Rhys said, gaining confidence. Or at least getting better at faking it. “You saved my life.”

“I saved everyone’s life,” he said.

Rhys bit his lip. He leaned forward, only a little, just enough to get inside Handsome Jack’s personal space. Enough to make him aware of where he was, where his body was. Maybe make him aware of how good he looked, even in this dime-store outfit.

“Were there other people there?” he asked. “I guess I didn’t notice.”

Handsome Jack’s expression didn’t change. “I know, I know. People tend to fall into the background when I’m around.”

“They do,” Rhys said, very seriously. He quirked one corner of his lips in a way he knew for a stone-cold fact made people nervous.

Handsome Jack turned his head a little. Even that felt like a victory.

“You know, there’s a whole party going on,” Rhys said. “Everyone’s real happy you came down all this way. They wanted to show you a good time.”

“Oh yeah?” Rhys couldn’t read the look on his face. The smile had budged at last, replaced with an enigmatic raise of a single eyebrow.

“That doesn’t interest you?” Rhys asked.

Handsome Jack flicked a dismissive gaze towards the main compound at their backs. “Buncha nobodies on a nothing planet with garbage food and bathtub gin? Pass. The only reason I came out to this berg was for the publicity.” He sneered. “I’ll look real pretty in the next company-wide vid.” He looked Rhys up and down. “You too, for that matter.”

Rhys pulled one leg up to his chest. He let his chin rest on his knee. He had moves. He had _poses_. Vaughn would laugh himself sick if he knew it, but Rhys knew how to display himself, his body, to the most aesthetically pleasing ways.

As embarrassing as it might’ve been, it was worth it. Because Handsome Jack had his eyes on him. Handsome Jack was watching him.

“Seems like a pretty poor compensation,” Rhys said.

“Really.” That unreadable look again.

Rhys licked his lips. “Seems like you could use a little something else. Something nice.” He slid his hand down his leg. “Maybe I could help?”

Clumsy for a come-on, definitely not his best work, but Jesus Christ, this was _Handsome Jack_. Rhys counted his blessings that he was stringing together coherent sentences. He held his breath and tried not to look terrified. Because this was it. This was his shot. He’d placed his bet, picked his number, and now he had to watch the wheel spin.

Handsome Jack looked him up and down again, his gaze lingering on his neck, on his lips. Rhys tried to keep his smile easy, to keep the tension from his spine, from the way he held himself. Keep all that desperation that made him so ugly from showing.

 _Please_ , he thought.

As if he’d heard him, Handsome Jack said, “Alright.”

Rhys sat back, a little stunned. “Really?”

Handsome Jack snorted. “Yes, really.” He looked him over again, and Rhys swore he could feel it. Like a prelude to the feeling of Handsome Jack’s hands on him.

“Yes,” Handsome Jack said, with a little more consideration. “I think you’ll do just fine.”

Before Rhys could say anything, he stood up, his hand digging into his pocket. “They gave me a private room. You’re a smart kid, I’m sure you can find it.” He pressed a keycard into Rhys’ palm. “Meet me there. Don’t let anyone see you.”

“Okay,” Rhys said, barely audible over the pounding in his ears. “Okay. Um. What are you—? When are you—?”

Handsome Jack gave him a brief look over his shoulder. “Meet me there, kiddo. I want you to be the first thing I see when I walk through the door. I won’t be long.”

* * *

Rhys _was_ a smart kid. He found Handsome Jack’s private quarters with relative ease. The foreman had given up her own residence for the newly crowned CEO’s comfort. Rhys didn’t even bother to look where she might’ve ended up. It didn’t matter. Her room, with its big, expensive mattress, was theirs for the night.

 _Theirs_. Rhys still wasn’t sure if he could believe it. He’d pinched himself enough times that his arm was dotted with fading red marks the size of quarters.

 _Meet me there. I want you to be the first thing I see_.

Rhys went to the foreman’s wardrobe and started sorting through what he could find. If he was going to be the first thing Handsome Jack saw, he could at least make sure he was worth looking at.

When Handsome Jack finally arrived, a year or a quarter of an hour later, Rhys was ready. He stood in front of the bed, and he was ready.

“Well!” Handsome Jack’s smile wasn’t what he expected. He expected a wolf’s grin, all teeth and hunger. The look he got instead was a little giddier, pleased and surprised. “I see someone’s helped themselves to the foreman’s closet.”

“I hope that’s not a problem,” Rhys said. Part of him felt grateful he’d only been given a quarter of an hour to prepare. Any longer and he might’ve talked himself out of this.

But part of him, the same part of him that had wanted to go looking through the foreman’s delicates, couldn’t help but wished he’d _had_ a little more time to prepare. He knew for a fact that he looked good with lipstick on, and he didn’t have the chance to go looking for any. That same part wished the foreman had been a bit less utilitarian with her wardrobe. What he wouldn’t do for some stockings, for some real silk.

The nicest thing he’d found was a pair of black panties with a small amount of lace around the waist, and a very small pink bow. It felt synthetic, but that didn’t matter. With any luck, he wouldn’t be wearing it for long.

Handsome Jack stalked closer, taking each step with care. The look he wore set something sparking at the base of Rhys’ spine, something shuddering in his chest.

“You are really something else.” He took Rhys’ hips in both hands and pulled him close. Rhys expected to be manhandled. He expected—hoped for—bruises. Something concrete. Something he could show off. But Handsome Jack’s hands were gentle on his skin. His thumb pressed into the soft space just above Rhys’ hip bone, running along the curve.

Rhys felt like he’d forgotten how to function. He felt like he had to remind himself how to breathe. In and out. It sounded so loud in his head.

“Did you do all this for me?” Handsome Jack asked.

Still, what kind of question was that?

“No,” Rhys said, voice trembling only a little as Handsome Jack’s hands slid up his bare sides. “This was for the next guy.”

Handsome Jack leaned close, until his face was inches away. The tip of his nose brushed against Rhys’. Rhys could taste the smoke still on his breath.

“Don’t get smart with me, kid,” he said, his lips brushing against Rhys’. “I haven’t got the patience for it.”

A shiver danced up Rhys’ spine, a counter-rhythm to his pounding pulse. This was happening. This was going to happen. Rhys would have to work very hard to mess this up. And he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t.

“Patience? You’re the one who’s still talking,” Rhys said.

He could feel it when Handsome Jack smiled. Rhys felt primed, electric. He was already half-hard, just from this. Just from Jack. He could die from this. But it wasn’t enough. He needed more, or he really would die.

And then, as if he could tell, Handsome Jack was kissing him. His lips were chapped but soft and his tongue felt hot as it slipped inside Rhys’ mouth. Rhys wanted to remember this, the way he gave Rhys’ lower lip a little nibble, the way his big hands moved back down—finally, thank god—to grip his hips once more. To knead at the soft flesh of his ass.

Rhys’ heart hammered against his chest so hard he could feel it in his head. His hands shook as he held onto Jack’s arms, his broad shoulders, like he was looking for something to hold onto. Something solid. Rhys’ head felt too hot. He felt like he was going to melt.

There was something desperate in it, which surprised Rhys. Something in the way he held Rhys, the way he kissed him, demanding and hot enough to burn. Rhys couldn’t figure it out. He wished he wasn’t thinking so much.

Handsome Jack walked him backwards, until the back of Rhys’ calves hit the edge of the foreman’s bed. Rhys’ knees buckled and he hit the mattress like his strings had been cut. Handsome Jack didn’t follow him, leaving Rhys seated, to stare up at him with wide eyes, his mouth wet and open.

Except Rhys couldn’t make himself look into that famous face. Rhys stared at his neck, at his chin. Handsome Jack cupped his face with one big hand.

Rhys realised he was shaking. His knees drawn tightly together, practically knocking together like he was some kid in the back seat of their prom date’s car.

Rhys tried to make himself look into that propaganda-ready face. In the dim light of the room, there wasn’t much to see except for the wet shine of his lips, the gleam of the silver clasps that held his white mask in place.

Rhys wanted badly to kiss him again. That had been good, hadn’t it? Hadn’t he been good? His fingers tightened in the foreman’s sheets.

“You okay, kid?” Handsome Jack asked. Rhys blinked. “It got pretty intense out there. Before. That bandit scum had you by the neck. Couldn’t have been easy, right? You must’ve thought you were done for.”

“You saved me,” Rhys said. God, even his voice was shaking. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I’m fine.”

There. That was better. He sounded good. Light. Confident. The way he sounded when Qing had asked him. Like he meant it.

“Really. You’re fine.” Something strange had happened to Handsome Jack’s voice. It’d gone quiet. Flat.

Rhys drew a calming breath. He aimed a smile into Jack’s shadowed face. “Yeah. I got rescued by Handsome Jack. Who wouldn’t be fine after that?”

“You were held hostage. You saw a lot of people die. Up close and in technicolour. I’m guessing this was your first time and you got caught in the splatter zone, kiddo. Covered in it.” His thumb rubbed against Rhys’ cheek. “And you’re fine.”

Rhys shrugged. He felt good about the things he was doing with his face, with his body. He’d stopped shaking. He didn’t feel that same nervous energy from before. He didn’t feel much of anything.

“I’m fine,” he said again.

He watched Handsome Jack’s nostrils flare. He saw it when his lips pulled down at the corners. His hand curled around Rhys’ soft jaw, and tilted his head up.

“Say it again,” he said.

Rhys blinked up at him. “Say…?”

“Say it again. Look at me and say it again. Tell me how you feel, after watching someone die in front of you for the first time.”

Rhys swallowed. “I’m fine,” he said. It still sounded good.

Handsome Jack’s grip tightened. “Again,” he said.

Rhys stared at him, his brows furrowing. A ripple in a calm pond. “I’m fine.”

Handsome Jack sank down, until his face was close to Rhys’. Until they were eye to eye. He kept Rhys’ chin in one hand, holding it tight enough to keep him.

“Third time’s a charm,” he said.

“I’m fine,” Rhys said. He blinked hard in shock when his voice caught on that last word.

Handsome Jack stared at him and this wasn’t fair. Rhys wanted to look away, turn his gaze, but he felt caught.

They say the eyes are the window to the soul, but that isn’t really true. You can’t see someone’s true self through their eyes. The best you can hope for, if you look real close, is to see yourself. Rhys could see the soft blue glow in Jack’s eyes. His own eye, looking back.

“Again,” Handsome Jack said.

“I’m…”

Covered in blood. Stuck in a cage. Surrounded by the stink of death, of terror. Someone had started crying, and then it was like a sing-along and everyone knew the words, although everyone took at their own pace, and soon the room filled with the sound of sniffling, of whimpering, sobbing. Rhys hadn’t joined in because he let himself go somewhere else.

Because that hadn’t actually happened to him. It couldn’t have. Things like that didn’t happen to Rhys. To a guy who grew up in a nice neighbourhood, who went to a nice university, who wore ties and ate lunch with his friends and called his parents once a week.

“I’m…” He could feel his mask crumbling. He could feel his face constricting, and he knew he wasn’t a pretty crier.

Something went soft in Handsome Jack’s expression. “Aw, shit,” he muttered and drew Rhys close. Rhys went eagerly, burying his face in the crook of Jack’s neck, wrapping his arms around his shoulders. Jack eased them back until they were both on the mattress. Rhys clung to him.

“Shit, kid, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

There was something wrong with his voice. This didn’t sound like the Jack that Rhys knew. This didn’t sound like the man who strangled people over the PA system as part of his motivational morning announcements.

He rubbed calming circles into the space between Rhys’ shoulder blades. “It was shitty of me to bring all that ugly stuff back up. I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve it.”

Rhys sniffed again. A few tears had leaked out, but thankfully not many. His body shook with suppressed sobs. He could hold it together. If Handsome Jack could tell him that he didn’t deserve it, then he could hold it together.

“You…” His voice sounded thick, but it wasn’t shaking so badly anymore. “You… you must think I’m—” He broke off with a wet hitch in his breath. “Must think I’m pathetic.”

Jack laughed, brief and unhappy. “Nope. I really don’t,” he said. Rhys snorted. “I don’t. I think you’re normal. I think you’re a normal kid who got caught up in something horrible.”

Rhys scoffed, a huff of breath against Jack’s neck.

“You should’ve seen how bad I was, my first time,” Jack went on. “I threw up.”

“I did that too,” Rhys said.

“Yeah, but I bet you did it in a washroom like a civilized person, and not in the corridor of a satellite in the middle of a mission. You don’t want to know what the other vault hunters thought of that. You ever cry and throw up at the same time? It’s less dignified than it sounds,” Jack said.

Rhys huffed again. He felt calmer, a real sense of calm and not the numb shock he’d tricked himself into thinking was the same thing.

“They laughed at you?” he asked.

“That was the least of it. I was pretty green then,” Jack replied.

“Mean vault hunters.”

“Yup.” Rhys was no expert but he thought he heard a smile in Jack’s voice. “Most of the people in this business are mean. Anyway, I’m sorry. I was pissed off earlier and taking it out on you. That wasn’t right of me. That wasn’t fair. I just… I got the feeling that something was off about you. I thought maybe you were pushing yourself to do something you didn’t really want to do.”

Rhys almost laughed. He pulled back and looked up into Jack’s face. “To do what? Live out one of my favourite fantasies? Have sex with my idol?”

Jack looked away. “You didn’t exactly seem enthusiastic, kid. I figured you were trying to push that whole ‘let’s fuck to remind ourselves we’re still alive’ thing. It’s almost never a good idea.”

Rhys frowned. “I know what I’m doing. You think I tripped and fell into these panties?” he demanded. Jack ducked his head with a rueful grin. “And quit calling me kid,” Rhys went on, emboldened by his smile. “You know my name.”

Jack shook his head. “You’re right. My bad, Rhys.”

“And I’m not a kid. I’m 23 years old,” he said, a little mollified.

“Oh, my mistake. I had you pegged for 20. Didn’t know how far off the mark I was. How could I have missed those three years, the wisdom of age so obvious in that baby face.” He drew one finger down Rhys’ cheek. Rhys felt his face grow warm. His gaze sank back down to Jack’s mouth. He bit his lower lip.

“Do you…” He hesitated, looking up briefly through his lashes and felt gratified when Jack’s breathing hitched. “Do you want me to leave?”

“You, ah. You don’t have to go anywhere. If you don’t want to.”

“Good.” Rhys shuffled closer, until he could push one knee between Jack’s legs. Until he could rest just a little on Jack’s thigh. “Because I came out here tonight with a pretty specific goal in mind. I’d feel really bad about myself if we didn’t at least make out a little.”

Jack grinned and now it was Rhys’ turn to feel flustered, because that was _the_ grin. The photo perfect one. The one that could sell a symphony to a deaf man.

“Well,” he said, slipping his hands gently around Rhys’ shoulders. “I’d hate to make you feel bad about yourself.”

Rhys hummed and bent down, until his face was close to Jack’s. He brushed a strand of hair back from Jack’s forehead.

Jack’s grin faded. “You sure about this, Rhys?”

Rhys pressed his lips together. He took one of Jack’s hands in his and placed it on his crotch, onto the not-silk fabric of the foreman’s lingerie. Jack’s grin returned, god bless us all.

“Well, that’s a big yes.” He pressed his thumb against that little pink bow, rubbing at the lace, teasing at Rhys’ skin.

Rhys took a handful of Jack’s hair and crushed their mouths together.

It took a second for them to rediscover their rhythm, momentarily hindered by Rhys’ impatience. But it was fine. It was worth it, because Rhys felt confident again. He felt good. His grip softened until he was smoothing down Jack’s hair, as Jack kissed him soft and sweet.

He pressed the flat of his palm against Rhys’ hardening dick. Rhys moaned softly, rocking gently forward into that warm pressure.

“We’re not gonna do anything you don’t want to do. Okay, Rhys?” Jack said, his breath hot against Rhys’ jaw. He trailed kisses down the length of Rhys’ neck and Rhys tilted his head back without shame, gave him better access. Rhys hummed, his hands travelling down the muscles of Jack’s back, down until he found that inward curve at the base of his spine, just above his tailbone.

“Here’s something I don’t want,” Rhys said as he pulled at the tails of Jack’s shirt. “You. Still wearing clothes. It’s a bad look for you, handsome.”

Jack nipped at the soft skin of Rhys’ ear. “Cheeky,” he said, leaning back. “But you’re right. Suppose it’s not fair, after you basically gift wrapped yourself for me.” He ran his hands up Rhys’ thighs, his fingers catching in the edge of his panties, slipping under and stretching them away from his skin. Rhys grinned as he pulled Jack’s shirt out of his jeans.

He could do this. This was no different than any other time he’d been half-naked and turned on in someone’s lap. This was just a good time between two people. He could do this.

Rhys was right, although he didn’t realise it until he’d stripped Jack of his shirts, until he saw what Jack looked like under all those layers. Clothing had been a bad look on Jack. Rhys had fixed it.

“Wow,” Rhys breathed.

Jack grinned, the skin around the edges of his mask flushed. He leaned back on the heels of his palms, stretching out those cut abs on display.

“Not bad, huh?” he said.

“Not bad at all,” Rhys agreed, running his hands greedily down Jack’s chest. “No wonder they call you handsome.”

Jack’s smile lost some of its radiance. “Hey, can you do me a favour? Don’t call me handsome.” It became strained, the lines around his eyes growing tight. “I fucking hate it.”

* * *

Rhys had spent a lot of time thinking about what it would be like, having sex with Handsome Jack. Almost an entire year, daydreams that entertained him during dull classes, fantasies that made nightly self-love sessions feel a little more involved, a little less lonely and a little more lovely.

He had a lot of expectations, and he knew it wasn’t fair. Jack wasn’t just the object of his fantasies. He didn’t want to think about expectations, not when he had the real thing in front of him. The real thing, with his big, warm hands on Rhys’ bare skin, his hot mouth on Rhys’ neck, and his chest.

But Rhys was only human, and he couldn’t help it. Jack wasn’t what he expected.

“You a virgin?” Jack pitched his voice low. He was poised above Rhys, his broad shoulders blocking Rhys’ view of the ceiling, of the room around them. His arms bracketed him on either side, holding him in.

Rhys wasn’t about to complain. Bared as he was to the open air, it felt nice having someone that strong above him, around him. The sheen of sweat on his darkly furred chest. The way he moved with each breath. Rhys was fascinated. He could stare for hours.

He could touch, if he wanted. All that beauty, on display just for him. He ran his fingers down his chest.

“Rhys.”

Rhys shook his head. He wet his lips, leaned up, pressed his face against Jack’s neck. He breathed in the faded scent of his cologne, of gunsmoke. Blood. He shivered.

“Easy, kid.” Jack took Rhys by the shoulders and pushed him gently back to the mattress.

Rhys pouted, lonely, frustrated, wanting. Jack shook his head, his straight teeth sharp and bright in the fading sunset light streaming through the windows.

“Easy,” he said again. He straddled Rhys’ hips, ran his hands up Rhys’ chest, knelt down and kissed him. Lowered himself over Rhys, warm and soft, gentle and sweet. Just for Rhys. All for him.

“We’ll take it slow,” Jack said, once they’d broken apart.

“We don’t have to,” Rhys said, leaning up for more. He took Jack’s lower lip between his teeth. He canted his hips up, back arching. He could be on display, too. He could be exactly what Jack wanted. In that moment, he would try his best.

“Well.” Jack broke away, one side of his mouth lifting in a lopsided smile. “Maybe I want to spoil you a little.”

Rhys could remember what it was like, those first few times with someone else. Being a teenager meant his brain ran hot, submerged with hormones, making each touch feel like the spark of something bigger inside of them. Those first few times, he was convinced he was in love, even though they barely got along outside of the bedroom.

He hadn’t expected to ever to feel that way again. When Jack kissed him, Rhys melted.

Those warm hands were gentle, almost soothing, as they positioned Rhys, stroked through his hair, guided him down onto the sheets. Gentle as they slid under Rhys’ stolen panties, Jack’s mouth sucking a fresh bruise onto Rhys’ neck, taking him in hand at last.

“We’re not gonna do anything you don’t want to,” Jack said once again. “You say the word and I stop. Okay?”

Rhys lifted his hips, locking one ankle around the back of Jack’s leg. “What’s the word to get you to _start_?” he demanded.

Jack laughed, breathless and soft. He took the hand Rhys had tangled into his hair and pulled it to his mouth.

“You could try ‘please’,” he said, his lips brushing against the tips of Rhys’ fingers.

Rhys said it. He said it as Jack leisurely kissed his way down his chest, lingering at his stomach. He snickered when Rhys jumped a little at the feel of his mouth.

“Ticklish?” he asked, running his fingers up Rhys’ sides.

Rhys grinned a little sheepishly.

“Cute.” Jack dropped a kiss on his soft belly.

Rhys said it again as Jack moved with aching, maddening slowness down. He said it again when Jack finally, finally, thank you god _finally_ pressed his lips to the tip of Rhys’ red and tragically ignored dick. He said it again when Jack took him in his mouth. He practically sobbed it when Jack swallowed around him, when Jack took Rhys’ left hand and put it on the back of his head. He gripped tight, his fingers tangling into Jack’s thick locks.

When the building heat inside of him finally, wonderfully broke, Rhys’ might’ve screamed it. Jack’s fingers dug into the soft skin of his thighs and he didn’t move. Rhys wouldn’t have believed it if it hadn’t happened to him, but Jack kept his lips locked around the base of Rhys’ dick, swallowing until Rhys was finished.

“You only had to ask once, darling,” Jack said, He wiped the back of his mouth.

Rhys blinked at the ceiling. He opened his mouth but he couldn’t think of what to say. He could barely think.

“Aw, don’t tell me I broke you already.” Jack lay down, resting his chin on Rhys’ stomach. He still had his hands on Rhys, stroking his thigh.

Rhys could do this. He could be an adult. He could say words, the right words, in the right order, to show his gratitude. Give some feedback, maybe.

“Wow…” he managed, which was better than he thought he would do. “Who’s… that’s… Where did you learn…?”

Rhys’ could feel Jack’s laugh against his stomach, the warm exhalation of it. “Are you really asking me where I learned how to suck dick?”

Rhys could do this. He told himself he could do this, even as he felt his face burn. “I’m not… That was just…” He struggled, brows furrowed. “That was just the best.”

“Yeah, you seemed like you were enjoying yourself.” Jack traced symbols into Rhys’ thigh, onto his stomach, meaningless things.

Rhys closed his eyes, letting himself focus on the sensation. Jack’s warm body between his legs, his fingers on his thigh, his head pillowed on his stomach. Rhys could feel him breathing. Could feel his chest expanding, feel each exhale. He wanted to touch Jack.

He reached out until his hand was inches from the top of Jack’s head, and then his mind chose that moment to return from its orgasm-induced vacation.

This was Handsome Jack, it reminded him. Do you really think that’s appropriate? Do you really think you can do this? Do you think he’ll let you stay?

That last question, more than a little hopeful. Rhys bit his lip, his fingers curling.

Jack caught his hand without looking up, startling Rhys. “I just had your dick in my mouth, remember?” He brought it down into his hair. “No need to be bashful, kid.”

Another thing Rhys didn’t expect. Jack was _nice_. He was almost sweet.

Rhys began to pet his hair, pushing his fingers through the hopelessly dishevelled style. Jack let his eyes drift shut as Rhys worked. Rhys felt the tickle of his lashes against his skin.

He was petting Handsome Jack. He was petting Handsome Jack after he’d given Rhys a blow job. This was somehow happening, to Rhys, in real life.

“This…” Rhys’ voice was quiet, almost hesitant. “This doesn’t feel real.”

“It’s all the product I have to use.”

Rhys snorted. “No, not— Not _this_.” He tugged lightly at Jack’s hair, ignoring the childish way he snickered. “I mean _this_. You, here, with me. After everything that happened today. I just don’t…” He stared up at the ceiling. “Maybe I did die.”

“You didn’t.”

“Maybe I did. Maybe that bomb went off. Maybe that bandit leader shot me dead.”

Jack kissed his stomach. “There was no bomb, Rhys. And no one shot you dead. A hero came and saved the day, remember?”

Rhys said nothing. The ceiling began to blur.

He could feel Jack’s head lift from his chest. He could feel the shift of his muscles, the way they tensed as he shifted, moved. It felt real when Jack pulled himself up level with Rhys’ face, pressed one big hand against Rhys’ chest, a warm and gentle weight. Rhys stared up at the white mask, that famous mis-matched gaze.

Jack’s hair fell across his forehead. Rhys reached up and touched his fingers to Jack’s mouth.

“I’m okay,” he said, tracing the line of Jack’s lips. “Everything’s just been so strange today.”

“I know.” Jack caught his hand. “You’re doing good, though.” He pressed a kiss to the flat of his palm.

The smile Rhys gave him was the real thing, and not the performance piece he’d used on Qing earlier. He felt it, this time. He was fragile, and he was brave. Rhys let out a shaking breath.

“Say it again,” he said quietly.

Jack kissed him. “You’re good, Rhys. You’re doing just fine.”

* * *

He didn’t expect sweetness. He didn’t expect Jack to touch him the way he touched him, like Rhys was something precious. As if they were lovers.

Jack nearly undid him from that alone. The slow and careful way he opened Rhys up, stretched him around his fingers. He took Rhys apart. He really did.

Rhys begged. Jack didn’t ask him to, but he did anyway. He writhed and gasped and begged without shame, without an ounce of regret. He kissed every inch of Jack he could reach. He dragged his teeth down Jack’s neck as Jack worked two fingers inside of him. He mouthed at Jack’s pulse, felt it against his tongue when Jack’s breathing stuttered.

“Please,” he whispered. He wrapped his legs around Jack’s waist, pleased with himself when they didn’t tremble. “Please, Jack.”

Jack inhaled sharply, his movements stilling. He pulled his fingers out.

Even in this, he was careful. Even with his hands holding Rhys’ hips, even with his thumbs pressing down against the jut of his hipbone, his fingers squeezing with each thrust.

Rhys felt as if something was sparking inside of him, under his skin, a heat that radiated out, that built up until he could feel the edge of it fluttering in his chest.

He watched Jack like he needed to, like it’d kill him if he looked away. He watched the way his muscles moved, the way his chest heaved with his breathing, the way his arms and shoulders tensed with the effort of holding Rhys, keeping him positioned where he wanted him. If there was any room in Rhys’ head for coherency, he might’ve marvelled at the picture Jack made. All that strength, all that work. At that moment, it was all Rhys’ to enjoy.

He gripped Jack’s wrist, tugging weakly.

“Please,” he whimpered, pulling. “Please—”

“Yeah? What is it, sweetheart?”

Rhys yanked. “Here,” he panted. “Come here.”

Jack lifted Rhys’ hips. He moved forward, taking care with Rhys, even as he nearly bent him in half. Jack leaned down until they were face-to-face.

“Miss me, Rhys?”

Rhys wrapped his arms around Jack’s shoulders and neck, pulling him down, bending him like a bowstring until he could press their foreheads together. Until his vision was filled.

“Jack.” He was almost shocked at the sound of his own voice. Breathless and trembling. Normally, he had to pretend. It felt so good like this, to come to it naturally.

He arched his back up off the bed. He dragged his nails down Jack’s shoulder. Jack shivered, his mouth open, his breath huffing against Rhys’ face.

“ _Jack._ ” He could make it sound like a present, or a plea, something better than his pleases. He could wrap it in velvet. He wanted Jack to know how much it meant to him, what it felt like to be there, under him, with him. To know him like this. Rhys’ fingers tightened, his nails digging into Jack’s shoulders.

“Jack, Jack, Ja—”

Easy to mistake the way Jack crushed his lips against Rhys’, silencing him, swallowing the rest of his begging, as passion. Easy to see the way he closed his eyes, the way his arms shuddered, as being overcome. And maybe he was.

But when Rhys finally broke apart, when the wave inside of him crested and finally submerged him, swallowed him whole, Rhys screamed his name.

Easy to mistake the look on Jack’s face, the way he flinched as if Rhys had struck him, as something else.

When the dust settled, years later, Rhys would still wonder about that moment. Such a small thing, but it stuck with him. The way Jack seemed almost pained. Like he didn’t want to hear his own name.

A strange thing.

* * *

They lay together, after, catching their breath. Jack had practically fallen on top of Rhys when he’d finished, which was so out of step with the rest of his sweet routine that Rhys would’ve laughed if he’d had the air to spare.

Neither spoke for a while. Rhys stared up at the ceiling and tried to get a grip on his new reality. This strange new galaxy, where he nearly died and now he had Handsome Jack lying on top of him, arm thrown across his chest, head tucked close to Rhys’ shoulder, like it was a perfectly natural thing to do. Maybe it was. Maybe they could keep doing it.

Rhys felt it in his chest, that swelling behind his lungs, something sick and sweet, fat and getting fatter. An old crush changing into something else, something better. Or worse. He didn’t want to think about it. No point in humouring something that would have to be put down like a lame horse in a matter of hours.

Or right now. Rhys’ legs twitched. He knew he should go. He knew Jack wouldn’t want him to stick around. He wasn’t the sort, no matter how nice he might’ve been before. They were finished now, and Jack was satisfied (or so Rhys hoped). Rhys thought about that dormitory, about four bunk-beds and the smell of other people. Hadn’t he intended to spend the night somewhere else? He probably still could. The party couldn’t have been over by then, and Rhys knew he looked good. Better, now, that he’d been so thoroughly fucked.

He started shifting under Jack’s weight, pulling himself closer to the edge of the bed.

Jack stirred, one eye opening, pinning Rhys as effectively as the hand on the flat of his chest did.

“You got some place to be?” he asked.

Rhys stilled. “I didn’t… I thought maybe you, uh, would want your space.”

Jack squinted at him, the corner of his lips twitching into a frown. “You can stick around,” he said, his arm tightening around Rhys.

Rhys felt it in his chest. Like a terminally ill puppy you couldn’t afford to get attached to. Rhys was too smart to indulge that kind of foolishness.

But he was also too smart to say no to Handsome Jack. He could do this. He lay back, let Jack pull him close.

“Does that mean we’re not finished?” Rhys asked, curling on his side, face close to Jack’s. Jack let his eye slip shut once more, lips relaxing into a smile.

“Sure, sweetheart. But I’ll need some time before round two,” he said.

After a split-second of hesitation, Rhys closed the distance between them and kissed Jack. Jack made a soft sound, something Rhys wouldn’t have been able to hear if he hadn’t been so close. He wondered how many people had heard something similar come out of Jack’s throat. A lot, he supposed. But tonight, it was just for him. Rhys slid his hand down Jack’s chest.

He broke away when Jack flinched. “Sorry!” he blurted. “Is it—” He pulled his arm back, as if he’d burned him. “Was it my arm? It can be kind of hard to get used to.” Some of the people he’d been with hadn’t liked it.

“No, no, sorry. I like your robo-arm,” Jack said. He pulled Rhys back. He looked up at Rhys with a half-smile, a look that could melt the gilt around Rhys’ heart, if Rhys was dumb enough to let it.

“Cybernetic,” he corrected, voice rough.

“Whatever.” Jack kissed the tip of his nose. “It’s not the arm—it’s my skin. One of the bandits caught me with a corrosive round. Must’ve been something unique in the mix, because the Anshin didn’t quite heal it all the way.” He held his arm up, displaying his side. It was difficult to see, especially in the low light of their borrowed bedroom, but Rhys could just faintly make out a splatter in shiny, pink scarred skin above his hip.

“Shit,” Rhys breathed. “Does—does it still hurt?”

“Only when I get a robo-arm trying to feel me up. Sorry.” He grinned. “I meant ‘cybernetic’.”

Rhys pouted. He knew he was doing it, but it was a habit he couldn’t easily break.

Jack chuckled, slipped his hand around the back of Rhys’ neck, and then they were kissing again. It lacked the earlier urgency, when they were both just desperate to get the other’s clothes off, to get as much of the other as they possibly could. But in its place, there was a different sort of heat. A simmering burn that spread through Rhys.

“You’re not what I expected,” Rhys said once they’d broken apart.

Jack’s fingers went still.

“Oh?” he said.

Rhys ducked his head, pressed his lips against Jack’s neck. “You’re nicer than I thought you’d be. I mean, I’ve thought about this for a long time—” Longer than he would ever admit to anyone, never mind Handsome Jack himself. “—but even in my wildest fantasies, you were never like this.”

Jack didn’t speak for a while. Rhys kissed his way down Jack’s neck, dragging his teeth across his pulse. He wanted to leave something behind. He wanted Jack to think about him when he looked in the mirror. A bruise wouldn’t last long, Rhys knew, but it was all he could give.

“What was I like?” Jack asked. Rhys could feel his voice, the vibration of his words against his tongue. “When you thought about me, what was I like?”

Rhys pulled away. He gave it some thought. “Pushy,” he said. “A little mean. Maybe more dominant.”

Jack pushed out a breath. “Is that what you wanted? After what you went through tonight?”

Rhys looked up, frowning. “I only want to be with Handsome Jack,” he said.

Something flinched across Jack’s expression. He wouldn’t look at Rhys.

“I’m not complaining,” Rhys said, more insistently. “I really—I don’t know if you noticed, but I had a very nice time with you. I enjoyed myself a _whole_ lot.”

Jack still wouldn’t look at him. Rhys bit his lip. He didn’t know what he’d said wrong. He couldn’t explain the sudden shift in mood.

“I’m glad I’m here with you.” He crawled over Jack, until they were face-to-face once more, until Rhys could lean over and kiss him. He did so then, a brief and almost chaste press of his lips. “Being with you has made me very happy.”

The eyes aren’t the windows to the soul. There was nothing for Rhys to see in Jack’s gaze, nothing he could read. Something went strange in Jack’s expression, another flicker, a break in the signal.

Jack surged up, wrapping his hand around the back of Rhys’ neck, and kissing him.

The urgency came back. Rhys had missed it, a little bit.

* * *

“You can’t tell anyone about this,” Jack said, much, much later.

Rhys mumbled something. His body felt heavy, exhaustion claiming him at last. He teetered on the knife’s edge of sleep, feeling sated at a bone-deep level, like some spoiled cat.

“Rhys, I mean it. You can’t tell anyone. Not your buddies, not your family, not your favourite bartender—no one.” Jack’s fingers traced the ridge of Rhys’ hipbone. “Rhys, do you hear me?”

Rhys made a sound that was meant to be agreement. “Sure. ‘S not like anyone’d believe me…”

Jack pressed a kiss to the knot of his spine. “Okay. Thank you.” He might’ve said something else, but he spoke too quietly to be heard. Rhys could feel his lips brush against his skin. He wanted to rouse himself, turn over and find out, but his body had other plans. He was asleep before he knew it.

Rhys woke up what must’ve been a few hours later when he felt the bed shift, when he felt the absence of warmth. He opened his eyes and found Jack seated on the edge of the mattress, pulling on his jeans. Rhys watched him without saying a word, listened to the shift of fabrics, the clink of his belt. He tried not to think of this as the last time. He traced the ridges of Jack’s spine with his gaze and tried not to think at all.

“Sorry,” Jack said, startling Rhys. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“How—?” Rhys swallowed and tried to laugh, make it sound casual. Like things were still light and good between them. “Wow. You’re pretty slick, huh?”

Jack looked over his shoulder and gave Rhys a smile. It wasn’t the one Rhys expected, the one he saw the most often in posters around the office, in company-wide broadcasts. Big and sharp and hungry, shark-like and more than a little cruel. The sort of smile worn by a man who’d just told a joke at your expense.

The smile Jack gave Rhys then, in the growing light of dawn, when there was no one else around, wasn’t like that at all. Rhys’ throat tightened.

“Can I call you?” he asked. He had to ask, even though he knew the answer. Rhys tried to take every shot life threw his way.

Jack’s smile grew sad. “You know that’s not what this is,” he said.

Rhys did know, which is maybe why it didn’t hurt so much when that puppy feeling was finally put to sleep. It wasn’t exactly relief Rhys felt, but he did feel a little lighter. The future seemed a little more certain, if a little emptier. Silly to get so worked up after one night.

But maybe something showed on his face, because Jack reached over for him. He wrapped one big hand around the back of Rhys’ neck and drew him in for a kiss. Soft and slow, almost more than Rhys could bear. He pushed his hand through Jack’s hair. Wished he could hold him there, make him stay.

But he pulled back, that sad smile back in place. “I’m glad I got to meet you, Rhys,” he said. Rhys didn’t respond. He wouldn’t have trusted himself to speak, even if he could’ve gotten the words out.

Jack got dressed, and then he left.

Rhys fell back on the bed and let his eyes slip shut. He didn’t want to watch the golden sunlight crawl across the ceiling. He wasn’t ready to face the day, and all its possibilities. He tried to console himself with the knowledge that he’d done well. He’d played his hand, and won the pot. People have done a lot worse.

Besides, he thought to himself, how many people could say they got Handsome Jack to apologise to them?

Rhys would cherish that memory. He’d mark down everything he’d learned about Jack in one night, keep each memory clipped and preserved in a mental scrap book. The fresh scars on his sides, the hair on his chest and arms, the look on his face when he teased Rhys, the freckles on his shoulders. He’d remember it all ‘til the day he died.


	2. Liberosis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **liberosis**  
>  _n._ the desire to care less about things—to loosen your grip on your life, to stop glancing behind you every few steps, afraid that someone will snatch it from you before you reach the end zone—rather to hold your life loosely and playfully, like a volleyball, keeping it in the air, with only quick fleeting interventions, bouncing freely in the hands of trusted friends, always in play. - _[The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows](http://www.dictionaryofobscuresorrows.com/post/62661406328/liberosis)_

When they met again, Jack didn’t recognize Rhys.

There were a lot of possible explanations. Rhys could’ve rationalized it in all kinds of different ways.

Maybe the guy who made the AI didn’t know about Jack and Rhys’ little one night stand. Rhys tried to believe that one, but even he found it unconvincing. He’d known enough about humanity’s latest quest for immortality to know that AIs weren’t the product of just one architect. That Handsome Jack himself would’ve had a heavy hand in its creation. There were programs developed that could read memories, devices that could plug into the subject’s mind as effectively as the port in Rhys’ temple could afford them. They were all hellishly expensive, complicated, and difficult to use—which is why Rhys knew that would be what they used on Jack. Handsome Jack.

The other possibility was that Jack had forgotten him.

That stung, more than Rhys wanted to admit, and it wasn’t just his pride that took the hit. Rhys had known that their night together was destined to be a one-time thing, and he’d known any feelings he’d developed were a waste of time, but there was a difference between _knowing_ a thing to be true and _believing_ it. Luckily, Rhys wasn’t afforded a lot of time to linger on his bruised heart. A lot of things happened very quickly with the botched vault key deal, the Gortys project, and the two conwomen he’d found himself reluctantly allied with. His best friend nearly dying. Killing his work rival. Rhys had a lot on his plate.

It hurt, but Rhys could make focus on staying alive. On dealing with Jack’s ambitions—and his own. He could focus on the way Jack’s face looked when he’d so easily slipped his programming inside of Rhys’ own cybernetics. When he’d gained control over the Atlas facility, and started the blood bath. The memory of that moment, of the way his right arm had moved without his input, the way it sometimes did in his nightmares—it was all so easy to think about that instead of anything else. How frightened he’d been. The taste of bile and panic in his throat.

But that couldn’t be every time. That couldn’t be every minute. There were quieter moments, times when even thoughts of Sasha wouldn’t keep him occupied. That blue flicker in his peripheral was a bad reminder.

Jack was everything Rhys expected him to be, before he’d met him that first time. He was taller than Rhys remembered—bigger. Like he’d stepped out of one of his billboards, propaganda come to life. He was loud, and obnoxious, and charming, even if he was crude. He was _magnetic_. No matter how hard Rhys tried, his attention was always pulled back to Jack. Watching him work was like being on a sinking ship. Rhys felt helpless, overwhelmed, but a sick part of him felt entertained. Even when he could hear the screams. Rhys never pretended to be a good person.

Maybe that was why Jack liked him.

Jack planned out their shared future. He had a vision. Well, so did Rhys. But Jack’s vision was bigger, it was brighter. Almost blinding. Rhys could’ve found himself lost in the landscape of Jack’s future, if he wasn’t careful.

Once or twice, before it all ended, Rhys thought about asking Jack. About the assault on that Hyperion compound on Eris. About the way he’d found Jack, when they first met on that dock overlooking the ocean. Watching the sunset. So romantic.

Rhys rehearsed what he might say.

Hey, this is kind of funny, but do you remember Eris? A bandit raid took me hostage and you saved my life.

Hey, do you remember this bandit raid on Eris? A bunch of us got taken hostage. Their leader had a detonator. I never even saw the bombs, but I stepped in and she—

She had a gun and I closed my eyes. But you were there.

I thought I was dreaming. You were there.

And then after, I found you. I went into the systems and found you.

I took a shot on you. It paid off. You let me spend the night. You were really—

I still think about how you were. You apologised to me. You held me for a long time, until I fell asleep.

I never told anyone. Just like you asked.

Do you remember?

Jack didn’t. In the end, Rhys never asked.

* * *

It ended.

There was a longer story to it, of course, one that involved actually being on a sinking ship, and racking up a body count so high it could touch the sky. A story with a satellite cracked open like an egg across the wastes. Of a broken display screen, a severed arm, a torn out eye.

Rhys had never enjoyed the literature modules they forced him to take as a teenager, but the eye thing stuck with him. In the days after he’d staggered from the corpse of Helios, he thought about the stupid eye. Tearing out their own eyes. Who did that? Someone had, someone before Rhys. Some tragic figure.

Rhys travelled the desert and didn’t die. Somehow. Those days became a blur. Rhys became a cockroach after the bombs. A clock that still ticked after a fire burned the house down. He put one foot in front of the other. He found water. He ate things he didn’t recognize. He stayed alive.

He found a fast travel station, eventually. From there, he found Sanctuary, which had become overwhelmed with refugees. Those emergency pods had split open too, and out of each one some corporate softbody had come tumbling out, stupid, blind and helpless as a baby bird. The cannier ones did what Rhys did, and found their way here, to hide under the Fire Hawk’s wing.

Not one of his former co-workers looked at him askance. No one remembered him, or his brief reign as the king. That also stung a little.

Rhys spent a few weeks in Sanctuary, staying in the hostel. He worried about paying for his board, but they told him it didn’t matter. No one expected him to have anything. With a bloody bandage over what used to be his eye, and a stump instead of a right arm, he must’ve looked truly pathetic. For a bunch of bandit scum, a lot of them showed surprising sympathy for him. A few more grudgingly than others.

Rhys asked if any of them had seen a short, white guy with an excellent body, but they hadn’t. He asked if they’d seen a tall, black woman with cornrows, but they hadn’t seen her either. He wished that didn’t hit as hard as it did.

He thought about asking for a brown-skinned woman in a ridiculous hat, and her loud-mouth, gun-toting sister, but he didn’t. Fuck ‘em.

With nothing else to do and no one else to guide him, Rhys did what he could. He put his head down and started to rebuild himself.

A teen girl with a similar prosthetic gave him a hand. Her name was Gaige, and that was exactly how she put it. Give Rhys a hand. Not a good joke, but she laughed.

She haunted the workshop Rhys used. She and her beeping death machine. Rhys didn’t mind her company, although it was loud.

“I’ll pay you back,” Rhys said. He hadn’t slept in two days at that point, partially because he wanted to finish the arm, but partially because he hated the dormitories, hated to put his head down. He would only sleep when his body collapsed from exhaustion. He hated what happened behind his eyes when he closed them.

“Fuck money,” Gaige said cheerfully. “We don’t need it, here. People still take it, but they won’t for long. Once we tear down the system, destroy all the corporations and every fat leech that bleeds the workforce dry, we’ll have no more need for money.”

She was a nice girl, but she had some big ideas.

“What’ll we use instead?” Rhys asked as he brought the fine soldering tool back to the metal.

“Nothing. We’ll be kind instead. We’ll help each other,” she said.

“What’ll we do when the bad guys come?”

“We’ll kill them,” she said. Her Deathtrap beeped, its colourful eyes flashing. Rhys wanted to like her robot friend, but it made him think of Loaderbot, of Gortys. Of everything else that went up in flames.

He swallowed past the lump in his throat, blinked the sting from his eyes. The sweat beaded behind his safety mask. “What if the bad guys are one of us? What if someone takes advantage of our kindness?”

Gaige drummed her heels against the metal locker she’d been sitting on. “Then we kill them, too. No one said a utopia has to be _nice_.”

Rhys wanted to argue, but what did he know about utopias? He built his arm.

* * *

Rhys spent almost three months in Sanctuary. It took that long to rebuild his cybernetics, even with Gaige’s own arm to use as a template. The eye took the longest, and it used the most delicate materials, required the most precise work. The first time he opened his eyes and saw the world in its full dimensions again had been the proudest moment of his life. He even high-fived Gaige.

Life in Sanctuary wasn’t easy, but it was easier than Rhys had expected. There was food and water for him. A bed he hated to use, in a hostel that stank of mildew and socks. But while Sanctuary very generously addressed many of Rhys’ needs, they didn’t address all of them.

And Rhys had so many. Needs that kept him up all night with their dark claws sunk deep into his subconscious. Needs that made him wake up in a cold sweat, that made him shake when he saw a monitor in the peripheral of his vision. Needs that haunted him like a ghost in the back of his closet. Although he didn’t have a closet, anymore.

He needed to forget Jack. He needed… something else from Jack. Something he thought he’d given up on all those years ago, on Eris. Rhys couldn’t stop thinking about him, about that night. He worried about sleeping in the hostel dormitories, that he might talk in his sleep. Worried that the others might hear what he had to say to Jack. If they knew, if word got around…

Most of the time, Rhys needed a drink. There was only one place in town that was serving.

Moxxi’s was open for all comers, a fact other citizens liked to snicker about. Moxxi ran the sort of joint that had a flashing neon sign. The sort of place with red lampshades covering every light. There was no secret about the kind of business she peddled out of her bar. It wasn’t a brothel, and she wasn’t a madam—not in Sanctuary, anyway. There wasn’t any room for that kind of thing. Although Rhys heard rumours about her other locations, her franchise across Pandora, and the rooms in the back and above the bar. VIP lounges.

But here, in Sanctuary, Moxxi’s was only a place where solicitors could meet with interested potential clients. What they did off-site was their business.

The crowd was subdued that night. A few lonely drinkers at a few sticky tables, a few bored prostitutes lounging around, playing a game of billiards. One of them caught Rhys’ eye as he walked in. He gave them a brief, pinched smile and looked away. Thanks but no thanks.

Moxxi stood behind the bar, cleaning a glass and watching a heavily armed bandit play the slots.

“Everyone’s got their rituals. You ever notice that?” She didn’t look over as Rhys approached. “Everyone’s got something to do with their hands when they’re tryin’ for luck. Or their mouths. I knew a gal that would kiss the handle before each pull, which was brave of her, considerin’ the state of hygiene ‘round here.”

“Hi, Moxxi.” Rhys’ voice didn’t break anymore when he spoke to her, which felt like a minor victory.

Moxxi finally looked his way and it was another victory when Rhys didn’t blush. She really was something else. It wasn’t just that she was beautiful—plenty of people were beautiful. Rhys, for example. It was the way she could give a special smile, just for you. The way she could make anyone feel like they were the one person she had been waiting to see all night.

“Well, hello there, handsome,” she said. Rhys suppressed a wince, a dead man’s laugh echoing in his head. “Can I get you something?”

“The usual, please,” he said.

She gave him his special smile. “One Sugar Lips, coming right up. I can have it brought to your table, if you like.”

“I’d like to stay here. If that’s alright with you,” he said as he slid onto a stool.

“I was hoping you might,” she said. He could almost believe her. “Now, we all know about people who like to get someone else to blow on their dice for luck, right? Well, I knew a guy who’d only let someone with purple lips do the honours. Purple was his lucky colour. Sometimes he’d have to run all the way down the street, just hollerin’ for anyone with purple lipstick to come out. I knew someone else who used to hum the same eight bars of some commercial jingle before she’d take her turn on the pool table.” Moxxi spoke casually as she poured several neon-coloured spirits into a shaker. She didn’t even bother with measuring.

“That doesn’t sound too strange,” Rhys said.

“Funny thing, though.” She added a scoop of ice and slammed the Boston shaker together. “She would do it over and over in different pitches, looking for the right one. She said her lucky pitch changed each time.”

Moxxi stopped speaking while she shook. There was a sad song on the radio, the volume too low for Rhys to make out the words. He could hear a woman’s voice carrying the tune. She sounded tired.

News had come in at long last. The Raiders had gone down to Helios to see what’d happened to the survivors, if there were any. Stretched thin as they were, they couldn’t have gotten there any sooner.

They found the place overrun with bandits. Some new hotshot leader had taken the place for his own. Any former-Hyperion survivors were either gone or prisoners, and the Raiders weren’t going to stick out their necks to find out which.

Rhys hadn’t seen many familiar faces among the other Helios refugees since his arrival in Sanctuary. Hyperion was a big company, Helios a big satellite. And there hadn’t been enough pods for everybody.

Moxxi set the chilled martini glass in front of Rhys. When she poured the drink, it came out a deep, luscious red.

“What’s your lucky move, honey?” she asked, pushing the drink towards him.

Rhys considered his new arm, flexing his golden fingers. “I’m not sure I have one,” he said at last.

“You must have. Maybe you just don’t notice it anymore,” she said.

Rhys gave it some thought while he took a sip. The Sugar Lips was the sweetest drink on the menu, the one thing Rhys had asked for that first, awful night he’d come to Sanctuary. Moxxi had took one look at his face, at the bloodied sleeve still pinned to his side, and told him it was on the house.

“I haven’t really felt lucky in a long time,” Rhys admitted.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Moxxi leaned against the bar. Behind her, the slot machine played a happy tune and the bandit cheered.

“What’s your lucky move?” Rhys asked.

“A lady never tells.” She winked.

He laughed, although he didn’t know if she was joking. Only two sips and his head had started to feel warm and light. He recalled that he hadn’t eaten anything in about four hours.

Rhys tried to think of ways to keep the conversation moving—maybe he had a lucky move after all? But all he could think about was the last time he’d stood outside of Henderson’s office, with Yvette and Vaughn. How Vaughn had told him to look down his nose, to work on his sneer. That Hyperion look. Rhys took another drink.

Moxxi perked up, her gaze on something over Rhys’ shoulder.

“Well! Hello there, handsome,” she said with a grin. “Didn’t think you were workin’ these parts tonight.”

Rhys heard the squeak of a boot’s heel against the tavern floor, the whisper of fabric. Rhys caught a whiff of expensive aftershave, a woodsmoke and herbal scent, as someone slipped into the stool beside Rhys.

“Hi, Moxxi,” a very familiar voice said.

* * *

It was as if Rhys had stuck his finger in a socket, or fell off a cliff and into a lake. His body went cold. His head tingled. His heart might’ve stopped. He flinched so hard that spilled his drink all over himself. Any other day, that might’ve been humiliating, but Rhys couldn’t even be bothered.

Because that was Handsome Jack’s voice.

And that was Handsome Jack sitting beside him, dressed in tight jeans and a leather jacket. Handsome Jack with the hair done right, and his mis-coloured eyes, and the very slight overbite. The white mask. Handsome Jack, like he’d never died.

“Oh, shit, sorry kid.” He leaned back and away from Rhys, both hands held up in surrender, placation, something. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Moxxi touched Rhys on the shoulder. “It’s alright, sugarbeet. That’s not the real deal.”

Rhys stared at her. He knew his mouth was hanging open, like he had something to say, but he couldn’t make his voice work. She gave him a sympathetic look, patting him gently.

“Jack’s dead. This is a body double.”

Rhys spent too long staring at Moxxi. He missed the look the body double wore when he finally took Rhys in. When his gaze landed on Rhys’ new arm, on the bandage over his still-empty eye socket. Nobody saw it, quick as a camera’s shutter: that look of fear.

When Rhys finally looked over, when his brain had more or less rebooted itself, the body double’s face was blank, and his hands were still up.

“Sorry,” Rhys said.

“I get it all the time,” the double said. He lowered his hands slowly. Moxxi swatted him with her towel.

“Dummy,” she said, almost fond. “You know there’s ex-Hyperion up here now. You’ll give my customers a heart attack.”

“Sue me, I thought I might find some new clients,” the double said, rubbing at his nose like she’d actually hurt him.

“Timmy works here sometimes,” Moxxie explained, turning to Rhys.

“As a bartender?” Rhys said, struggling to keep up. Because why not a bartender? Why wouldn’t Handsome Jack work in some dive bar in a flying city, nestled in the heart of his enemies’ stronghold?

Moxxi giggled. The double shook his head.

“No, kid. I’m not a bartender.” He leaned one elbow against the bar, one hand resting in his lap, fingers between his thighs and Rhys found his gaze sinking.

This shouldn’t have felt the way it felt. Rhys should’ve been furious. He should’ve reached over the bar, grabbed the first bottle he could get his hands on, and made himself a weapon. He should’ve tackled that body to the ground, shoved broken glass into that face, ripped up that mask. He should’ve been angry.

He wasn’t.

“Why do you figure you’ll find new clients here, anyway?” Moxxi asked. “You know what Jack was to these people.”

The double shrugged. “Sure. But I figure at least one of ‘em’s gotta have a fantasy about fucking the boss. Right, kid?” He gave Rhys a special smile, just for him.

Oh no, Rhys thought dimly. His gaze flicked over to the pool tables, where the prostitutes were finishing up their game.

“Oh,” he said. His spine stiffened. He straightened from his slouch, and looked the double in the eye.

“How much?” he asked.

Half of the double’s grin collapsed, leaving behind something lopsided and a little smug. He waggled his brows at Moxxi.

“Told ya,” he said.

“Probably more than you can afford right now, sugar,” Moxxi said, not unkindly.

“Hey, now, don’t quote my rates for me, Moxxi,” the double said. Moxxi’s gaze slid towards him. “Please,” he added.

She sniffed and turned away. A new customer had arrived, the one she’d been waiting to see all night, needing her special attention.

“She’s probably right, though,” the double said, lowering his voice.

Rhys looked down at what remained of his drink. It’d started to dry on his hand, leaving behind a filmy residue. He clenched his jaw against the pout he could feel brewing.

He knew, now, just exactly what he wanted. What he’d been aching for since the first time Jack told him he’d done good. Since the first time he’d called Rhys by a pet name.

“That’s fine,” he said, raising his head. “I don’t plan on being a poor refugee forever.”

God, that face could be so expressive. The way it moved from regretful to considering with just a twitch of those lips, a quirk of the brow.

“That so?” the double asked.

Rhys put his metal hand on the bar, a reminder to himself just what he was capable of. How far he could go for what he wanted. He tried to look confident, cool and stable. Not an easy task, with half his drink on his shirt.

“That’s right,” Rhys said, more confidently than he felt.

The double considered him for another long second. The song on the radio changed.

Slowly, that expressive face shifted again, that consideration that he’d aimed at Rhys like staring down the sights of his gun changed into a slow and careful smile. Another one, just as special, and maybe a little mocking.

“Alright,” the double said. “I might actually believe you.”

That was good. Rhys couldn’t tell if he believed himself just yet, but he felt like it was the start of something. Just saying it out loud changed things.

“I’ll tell you what, kid.” The double leaned forward, his knees knocking against Rhys’. “Seeing as this—” He flicked his finger against the stiff fabric of Rhys’ stained shirt. “—was my fault, I’ll buy you another drink.”

What are your lucky moves, Rhys?

“I could use a new shirt too,” Rhys said. The double laughed, and it looked honest.

“It’ll wash out. What are you drinking?” He tapped the bar, leaning a little over the lip to catch Moxxi’s eye.

“Sugar Lips,” Rhys said, unashamed.

The double glanced at him, the corner of his lips quirking into a smile. Rhys felt it like he’d been pricked with a needle.

“Cute. Hey, Moxxi? Can you get my new friend here another Sugar Lips?” He slid a bill across the bar.

“And for you?” she asked.

“Nothin’ for me,” he said.

Disappointment was another needle, and this one went deeper and didn’t feel as sweet. “You aren’t staying?” Rhys asked.

“Nah. I think this place might be dead.” He slid off the bench. “Good luck with all the garbage you’ve got coming your way.”

“Thanks,” Rhys said.

“No problem.” Man, when he wanted to, that double could really nail that self-important, obnoxious grin. He picked up Rhys’ hand and slapped something into his palm. “Be sure to give me a call when you’ve reclaimed your wealth, Scarlett. Take it easy, Moxxi. Don’t disappoint me, kid.”

The double left, catching a few stares on his way out. When the door finally closed behind him, Rhys could breathe again. He looked down at the off-white business card in his hand, with the words ‘Doppelganger for Hire’ and an ECHOnet address written in golden ink.

“Here, Rhys.” Moxxi set his new drink in front of him.

“Does he come by here a lot?” Rhys asked. She gave him a look. “Sorry. Thank you for the drink. Does he come by here a lot?”

Moxxi glanced at the door. Something closed off in her expression. “Sometimes. Not as often as he used to. He probably won’t come back for a while.”

Disappointment didn’t sting as bad the second time around. Rhys took a sip of his drink.

“He shouldn’t have come by today,” she went on, shaking her head. “It’s not right. So many of you kids, still fresh off of Helios…”

“I’m not a kid,” Rhys said, flushing. Maybe Moxxi had gotten a little heavy handed with her pours, or maybe it was just frustration building up over the last few weeks, over building a new arm from garbage, over the indignity of sleeping in a dorm, over everything he’d lost. The things he still saw, that his mind replayed for him in bright colours and crisp sound, when he let his guard down—but Rhys felt angry. He felt it like a bonfire sparking in his head.

Moxxi gave him another look, like she could tell what was brewing. “I know, Rhys. But all the same, it’s best if you don’t see him for a while.”

Rhys felt ready to argue, even if Moxxi’s look had cooled some of the heat behind his eyes, but she turned away, sauntered down the bar to her next customer.

Rhys finished his drink in silence. He looked at his arm, at the business card in his right hand, and started making plans.

* * *

Rhys did what he did best. He survived. He made opportunities for himself, and then he exploited them for all they were worth. He worked miracles, both minor and major. He took that wrinkled deed to a dead company, took the remaining Hyperion refugees from Sanctuary, and turned them all into a promising future. It was like alchemy, or it would be if Rhys knew what that was. Raw materials into magic. And, then, eventually, into a modest fortune.

In a lot of ways, he was lucky. Some of the refugees were engineers, some were actually involved in the scientific divisions, into actual research. Only a small handful were the useless stock: the marketers, the publicists, the administrators. Rhys put every last one to work with menial tasks, with promise that their skills would be needed eventually.

They found money and turned it into more money. Rhys spent fewer and fewer nights in the lab, working code until his brain nearly shut itself down. He began to have spare time again.

In six months, he had a factory up and running, and people willing to work for him. People started showing up on their own, some with resumes written by someone else, by someone literate, but every one was looking to work. And people were the most valuable resource of all, in Rhys’ opinion.

(That was a good line. Rhys wrote it down so he wouldn’t forget it.)

Atlas found itself back on the map. Not the juggernaut it once was, but not dead, either. And Rhys found himself with a little extra cash in his pockets. Not the lavish wealth he’d dreamed of, but he wasn’t spending nights in the Sanctuary hostel, wearing donated clothes, either.

He reclaimed the Atlas compound in the white wastes. He found himself a presidential suite, a place with a big mattress and soft (if dusty) sheets. He had a little money to spare, something he could spend to treat himself to something nice.

Or to someone not so nice.

* * *

The door chimed at exactly 8 o’clock in the evening. It didn’t catch Rhys off-guard, although he might’ve jumped a little. He’d been ready for this since he made the call. He’d been ready since the first time he’d met the doppelganger in Moxxi’s.

“Hey.” The double stood outside of Rhys’ room, looking perfect. Looking exactly the way Rhys remembered him, with the hair done up right, and the clothes the right style, and the mask. Everything Rhys had wanted since he plugged Jack into his head, since he’d tried to start something with a phantom.

Rhys didn’t know if this was healthy. He was pretty sure it wasn’t. He stepped aside and gestured for the double to enter.

“Nice place. Kind of remote, though.”

God, he was so good. The walk, that voice, everything was just exactly right. He examined Rhys’ room with his hands on his hips, his head tilted like Rhys’ place was his to judge. And it definitely wasn’t healthy, just how badly Rhys wanted him to approve.

“Do you like it?” he asked before he could stop himself.

The double caught Rhys’ eye and smirked. “You’ve really made something of yourself, haven’t you? I knew you wouldn’t disappoint me.”

Something small and long neglected suddenly came to warm, shivering life inside of Rhys. He could feel it tremble in his chest, low in his stomach. He tried not to let it show on his face.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Rhys asked.

This wasn’t Rhys’ first time. On Helios, they had an entire department of people for hire for this precise purpose. The Department of Morale and Extra-Curricular Activities was its official title. The Fuck Shop, if you were crude.

They were ostensibly there to assist with stress relief. Helios wanted to be a complete compound. Hyperion wanted its employees to live and die inside of its metal walls. People were encouraged to bring their spouses, their families, but some people—like Rhys—came alone. Those people might’ve needed incentives to stick around.

Rhys had availed them of their services exactly once, because they weren’t free. It’d been just after he’d gotten his promotion out of data mining and into propaganda and manipulation. He and his friends planned to spend the evening popping bottles in The Shark Tank, Helios’ most exclusive club, and Rhys decided he might enjoy the night a little more with an escort on his arm.

He’d been right. Her name was Nellie, and he picked her profile out of their database. He half expected her to refuse the offer, but she hadn’t.

She asked him why he picked her, and he told her it was because she was cute. Because he liked her nose. He asked her why she accepted, and she told him she had a thing for tall, skinny guys.

“And,” she added, running her hand through his hair, “I liked your haircut.”

He wanted to ask the double why he’d agreed to come out. Why he’d even given Rhys a second look at Moxxi’s. He’d come up to sit beside him, out of everyone else. Had that been an accident?

Rhys controlled himself. No point in making things awkward just yet. He handed the double his drink and sat down on the couch opposite.

The double quirked his eyebrow at the distance, but didn’t say anything about it.

“So.” He leaned back in Rhys’ couch, one ankle balanced on his knee, spreading out and making himself comfortable. Like he owned the place. “What are we doin’ here, kiddo?”

 _Jesus_ , Rhys didn’t expect that. It shouldn’t make him want to curl up, hearing that little pet name in that voice, but it’d been so long. He had to pace himself. He looked down at his knees while he tried to think of an answer that wouldn’t completely embarrass himself.

“You don’t have to be shy with me, you know,” the double said casually. “I take my client’s non-disclosure pretty seriously. You wouldn’t believe the kind of depraved stuff some people have asked me to do. And you’ll never hear about it, either. I can be good,” he added with a grin.

It felt like an obvious opening. Rhys’ mouth started to water.

“I’ve thought about it for a long time,” Rhys said. “You. Here, like this. You were right before. I had fantasized about fucking the boss.”

The double’s grin grew a white gleam. “Of course you did, sugar lips.”

Rhys’ face burned. This was his apartment. His company that he, with the help of a few dozen other people, built with his bare hands from practically nothing. He shouldn’t just sit there and let this man talk to him like that.

“What do people usually ask for?” Rhys asked. The double raised both brows. “I mean, tell me what you can without incriminating anyone.”

“Well…” The double looked around Rhys’ apartment, eyes scanning over the bits and pieces of Rhys’ life, the projects he’d been working on. He still hadn’t told Rhys if he liked it.

“Most people come to me for a pretty singular piece of roleplay. I’m sure you already guessed that. What we do is pretty much up to them.”

Rhys could decide. He could tell this man to do whatever he wanted him to do. Heat prickled under his collar. He took a drink to cover.

The double drank with him, his eyes locked on Rhys’ face. “I find there are two very specific types of fantasies people are after. One, they want me to take charge. What that means, exactly, varies from person to person. There are certain conditions for that one. Certain limits I won’t cross. You understand?”

Rhys nodded.

“Two…” The double looked Rhys over, licked his lips. “They take charge of me.”

 _Oh_. Those words opened a door of wonderful possibility. Rhys might not have been terribly creative, but he could be very imaginative.

“Again, that means something different for everyone. And there are a lot of conditions for that one, too. So.” The double leaned back, the ice clinking in his glass with the movement. “Tell me, Rhys. What are you after?”

Up until now, Rhys thought he knew. He thought he wanted Jack back in his life, he wanted that voice in his ear again, commanding and mocking. He thought he wanted that weight holding him down, those hands finally around his neck. Whatever Rhys and Jack had shared before on Eris, it couldn’t have been right. The man he’d shared a bed with that night wasn’t the same man who’d invaded his head. That night was a mistake. Or a dream.

Maybe he still wanted all of that. But maybe that wasn’t everything he wanted anymore.

“Of course,” the double continued, “not everything I do requires a safeword. We can always just fuck.”

“We’re going to need a safeword.” Rhys barely recognized his own voice. The double’s eyes snapped to his, his lips parting just a little.

Rhys finished his drink and set it down with a quiet click on his glass coffee table. “ _You’re_ going to need a safeword,” he said as he stood.

The double watched him as he rounded the table, tipped his head back as Rhys came close, exposing that lovely neck. Rhys took his drink from his unresisting hand and slid into his lap, straddling his hips until they were face to face. Until Jack was forced to look up at him.

“That’s all well and good,” the double said, his voice low. He barely moved his lips, but Rhys watched them anyway. He couldn’t bring himself to look anywhere else. “But we still need to have a conversation.”

“So talk,” Rhys said, lowering his head until he could feel Jack’s breath on his face. Until he could brush his lips across Jack’s.

That was all he needed, he told himself. Just a little taste. Something chaste and soft. But he felt Jack’s hand on his lower back, felt him move in response, pushing upwards, and Rhys’ resolve snapped like the damp twig it always was.

He kissed Jack. Rhys buried his hands in Jack’s hair and held him, pulled him back until he could lean over him, until he could have that neck exposed, just for him.

Jack gasped, a sound that went straight to the heat pooling between Rhys’ hips. He ground against him, pushed his lips apart with his tongue and went searching for more little noises, anything else he could wring out of him.

Jack’s hands slid down his waist to cup his ass, his fingers tightening, squeezing, when Rhys sucked on his lower lip.

Jack broke away first.

“ _Jesus_.” It was more breath than sound, as if it’d been punched out of him. Rhys followed him, kissing along his jaw, his thumb brushing against his neck. He wouldn’t strangle Jack, he decided. But maybe he’d tell Jack just exactly how he wanted to be strangled. He sucked a bruise under the bolt of his jaw.

“Kid, you’re killing me,” he said, panting.

Rhys hummed and placed a kiss over his hard work. “Relax. I got you, Jack.”

Jack closed his eyes. His breathing seemed to steady.

“Up,” he said, smacking Rhys’ ass. “We’re gonna have this talk and we’re not gonna have it with you in my lap.”

* * *

Their talk was brief. Rhys behaved himself through it, because he didn’t want to be rude. More than that, he wanted the double to know that he respected him. Sex work wasn’t the dangerous proposition it used to be, but like any position that required customer service, there were always customers looking to take advantage. Assholes who thought they could start the game early, that the worker’s needs and comfort didn’t matter. That payment was the only discussion needed.

Rhys sat beside him, his hands in his lap, while the double laid it out for him. His boundaries made sense. Rhys had no trouble with any of them.

“We’ll use the colour system, because it’s pretty straight-forward. Green is go, yellow is yield, and red is stop. Clear?” the double asked. Rhys nodded. “Say ‘yes’ out loud, Rhys.”

“Yes,” Rhys said, still nodding. He edged a little closer.

“If you want toys, you have to supply them yourself. And no surprises, not at the start. Anything you want to use on me, you have to show to me first and I have to approve. Clear?”

 _Toys_ oh god, Rhys hadn’t thought about toys. He clutched his fists tight in his lap. “Yes,” he said.

“You try anything I don’t like, you ignore the safewords? You won’t like the consequences.” It seemed like a practised speech, but his voice lowered to a growl at the end and Rhys felt his knees tremble. “Am I understood?”

Rhys nodded eagerly. “Yes.”

The double eyed him, and then he smiled. “Alright, good. So.” He leaned forward, spreading his legs a little. Rhys’ gaze sank to his jean-clad thighs, his crotch. He wondered if he could reach out, if he was allowed to touch now. He swallowed.

Jack touched two fingers to the underside of his chin, pulling his gaze upwards, to look into his smirk.

“Wanna get started?”

* * *

Jack was perfect. He did everything Rhys told him to, thanked Rhys for making him do it, told him how good he was. When Rhys’ mouth fell open, and his hips stuttered, Jack said it again and again. _Good, so good, so good to me, Rhysie_.

Jack looked just as Rhys remembered him, dark hair on his cut chest, down his muscular arms. He still looked like the sort of man who killed people with his bare hands. All that lovely strength, barely controlled on Rhys’ command, only his command.

“Your hands,” Rhys gasped, arching his back. He was fully seated on the double’s lap, taking his length at his own pace. A slow and easy roll of his hips, angling himself until he felt filled completely, until each thrust had sparks going off behind his eyes. It was an old cliche, but it was true: he felt electric. He felt it tingle right down to the tips of his fingers.

The double’s gaze was fixed on Rhys. Every time Rhys looked over, he found those mis-matched eyes watching him, watching his _face_. A part of him might’ve known that it only made sense. Of course the double would want to know his client was having a good time. But all Rhys could see was Jack’s face, his gaze intent on Rhys. Every time their eyes met he felt it up his spine.

“Your _hands_ ,” Rhys insisted, grabbing them and placing them on his hips. “I want— I want to feel it. I want bruises.” He squeezed them.

Jack obliged. He dug his fingers into the soft skin of Rhys’ hips, his thumb pressing hard against his thigh. He held Rhys while Rhys began to move more quickly, spurred onwards by the feel of those big hands, just as he remembered. God. It was like being 23 all over again. Rhys threw his head back.

Jack gave him bruises. He gave him everything Rhys asked for. Even when Rhys asked him to wait, to hold out until Rhys was finished, until he was absolutely wrecked and spent, he did. He bit his lip and watched Rhys throw his head back, shouting as he came, using Jack without shame until he was satisfied.

“You look good like this,” the double said, voice breathless and tight.

Rhys stretched out on top of him, practically purring under the compliment. He knew he looked good, of course, but he always appreciated the reminder.

“Okay.” Rhys pulled himself up onto his elbows. He gave a shallow roll of his hips, enough to feel Jack’s still-hard cock shift inside of him. The double closed his eyes, his teeth sinking into his lip hard enough to pull a small bead of blood to the surface. Rhys leaned down and kissed the corner of his mouth.

“Okay,” he said again, dropping kisses down his jaw. “You’ve got me, don’t you? Fuck me stupid, Jack. Fuck me ‘til you’re finished. Make me feel it.”

Jack groaned. He flipped their positions, easily manoeuvring Rhys under him. He did exactly as he was told.

* * *

Rhys roused himself from his post-orgasmic bliss when he felt the mattress move. He looked over to see the double seated on the edge of the bed, his back to Rhys. The wave of deja vu nearly submerged Rhys completely, bringing him back five years prior.

_I’m really glad I met you, Rhys._

He swallowed hard and turned his face to the ceiling. The soft lighting of his apartment made for soft shadows, fuzzy grey and black in the corners. This wasn’t some foreman’s quarters. This was his home. This was Atlas. He touched his new cybernetic arm, traced his fingers down its chrome casing. The things he’d accomplished after Humpty-Dumptying himself were like lodestones, anchors that kept him in the present. Reminders of more than just where he was, but of what he’d done. Of what he’d been made to do, out of desperation.

How could Jack have forgotten him?

It didn’t matter. Rhys closed his eyes.

“So.” The sound of his own voice surprised him a little. He hadn’t rehearsed what he would say now, and he didn’t know if improvisation was a good idea, all things considered. But he’d already started. Might as well see it through.

He opened his eyes and looked over to where the double sat. He could see the faint glow of an ECHO screen on his arms.

“So,” he tried again. “Are you just trying to give me the authentic sleeping-with-Jack experience, or do you actually have some place to be?”

“It can’t be both?” The double looked over his shoulder. He smiled at Rhys.

The smile wasn’t right. It wasn’t the one Rhys remembered, soft and sweet. Looking at Rhys like Rhys meant something, like he deserved to be looked upon with kindness after everything he’d gone through.

Rhys looked away. He’d gone through so much more since.

“Can I call you?” he asked, because he could. Because he still knew the answer, and he relished hearing it from Jack’s own mouth.

“I was hoping you would, pumpkin,” the double said, pulling himself to his feet. “You’ve got my card. Call me any time.”

* * *

He didn’t remember. He couldn’t have. Why else would he ask for the things he’d made Tim do? The roughness, the violence. He’d made Tim take that long, fragile neck in both hands and squeeze. He made Tim yank his hair, bite his skin, leave fat bruises, marking up that soft skin. Like some kind of animal. Tim had done that sort of thing plenty of times before, but it never left him feeling as sick as he did that night. Watching Rhys’ eyes roll back, hearing him choke.

Hearing him call out for Jack.

He didn’t remember how it’d been, all those years ago.

Or he did, and you were never what he wanted, Tim. You showed him a good time, yeah, but even he knew it wasn’t right.

_I thought you’d be more dominant. Meaner._

You don’t get to be sad about this, Timmy. You don’t get to build a business on your killer impression and then get your feelings hurt just because someone wanted to buy the product you’re selling.

Everyone wanted Handsome Jack.


	3. Adronitis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **adronitis**  
>  _n._ frustration with how long it takes to get to know someone—spending the first few weeks chatting in their psychological entryway, with each subsequent conversation like entering a different anteroom, each a little closer to the center of the house—wishing instead that you could start there and work your way out, exchanging your deepest secrets first, before easing into casualness, until you’ve built up enough mystery over the years to ask them where they’re from, and what they do for a living. - _[The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows](http://www.dictionaryofobscuresorrows.com/post/47642584250/adronitis)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beautiful, incredible artwork in this chapter is credited to [motherfuckingmoran.tumblr.com](http://motherfuckingmoran.tumblr.com)! Click the image for the full-sized version.

Nothing ever went according to plan. Rhys didn’t even know why he bothered making any. His plan to ascend the ladder in Hyperion ended with a demotion to janitorial. His plan to steal a deal from under his rival ended with a murderous AI plugged into his brain. His plan to ascend Hyperion in a more direct fashion ended in a flaming wreckage that fell from the sky, and a body count in the triple digits.

Rhys wanted to learn something from those previous experiences, but he had never been the sort of man to take lessons easily. He still made plans.

Rhys made new plans, and lied to himself about making them. He’d planned to rebuild Atlas, the defeated rival of Hyperion, because he’d found the deed and he felt a certain spiritual connection to what Jack had done to it. Rhys suspected that had things gone differently in Jack’s office, he would’ve ended up behind glass, too. Another trophy on display.

He would ascend, take the throne, any throne, and this time he’d do it the proper way.

The doppelganger wasn’t meant to be a part of anything Rhys wanted to build. He was just a fun distraction, fulfilling a need Rhys had only recently discovered that he had. Rhys did call him after their first session, because he could and because he knew the doppelganger would pick up. He would come when he was called. Rhys became reacquainted with Jack’s body in a way he’d never been allowed to before. He got to take his time, a real luxury for them both, as the double charged by the hour. But it was worth it.

Rhys committed the fatal mistake of optimism, because things looked good. He didn’t _exactly_ think ‘what could go possibly wrong’ because he wasn’t a cartoon character, but he did let himself get complacent with the new life he’d built for himself. Building it without Vaughn and Yvette was like running a marathon on a broken leg, or like missing a limb, but he knew a thing or two about working around that sort of disability. It hurt, but it hurt less every day.

It went to hell when he got the call from someone claiming to be Fiona. He couldn’t explain why he’d answered it, why he let himself get lured out to the middle of nowhere, alone. He told himself he’d only do it to see the look on her face when he told her that he’d not just survived, but he’d thrived without her. In spite of her. You can’t keep a good man down, even if you leave him to die in a crashing satellite.

Not even _that_ could go according to plan. He’d met the masked stranger and his whole life went sideways.

Later, much later, after being reunited with Vaughn and Yvette—and, god help him, even Fiona and Sasha—he was allowed to admit to himself that maybe, just this once, it was for the best things didn’t work out the way he’d planned. If it meant he got his best friends back, all alive and well, then nothing he’d wanted before really mattered.

Two months after the Vault of the Traveller, Rhys found himself standing outside one of the only nice event venues on Pandora, holding a white and pink hand-wrapped gift in his hands.

The place was called the Bridgemoor Hall and it was located not far from the highlands. Rhys had expected the venue to look the way every non-corporate building looked on Pandora: a Frankenstein-style composition, a scrap-metal and wood nightmare. Scorch marks up the side, riddled with bullet holes. The usual.

There were some bullet holes, but they were negligible. The whole venue appeared to have been built from raw materials and not from bits of other buildings. Rustic, but it didn’t look like it might give him tetanus. Polished, wooden benches, darkly stained and neatly tended, lined up in rows on either side of an aisle, facing a flower-and-ribbon-bedecked arch.

Rhys had been anxious about his sartorial choices—Pandora was the worst thing that could happen to a nice suit—but the sight of the clean benches, floors, and even walls made him relax a little.

The venue had been decorated in shades of white, mint green and gold. Flowers spilled out over every surface, bursting from white vases. Flickering candlelight gave everything a soft, cozy look.

Rhys placed his gift within the growing pile and went in search of a familiar face. He lucked out and found one by the picture windows, facing the water.

“Rhys!” Sasha smiled at his approach. “You come here solo?”

“What kind of question is that?” Rhys asked.

She laughed and threw one arm around him in a half-hug. Things were still a little awkward between them, but at least she could look him in the eyes now.

“I just figured you would’ve come with Vaughn, or at least Yvette,” she said.

Rhys winced. “Ah, there was a minor catastrophe in the satellite. Some trade deal with a neighbouring village hit a snag. Vaughn told me that they’ll miss the ceremony, but they’ll still come for the reception.”

“I should hope so. Free food and booze, who would want to miss that?” She flicked her gaze to the waves. “I hope everything’s okay.”

“It’s fine. Some people are still a little funny about making deals with former Hyperion employees.” Rhys knew all about it. Even on Sanctuary, when he had nothing to his name except the blood-stained clothes he’d burned, people’s charity came uneasily. Even Gaige and Moxxi, who’d helped him more than anyone else, might hesitate now and then.

Letting bygones be bygones was a nice idea in theory, but a lot of people had a hard time putting it into practice. Hyperion did a lot of bad to the people of Pandora.

It occurred to Rhys that Sasha was one of those people. It’d been the biggest wedge between them, back when they’d been working together. Rhys fiddled with his golden cufflinks and wondered if now was a good time to try and bury the hatchet. Weddings were all about good feelings, right?

Rhys cleared his throat. “So, where’s Fiona?”

“In the back, with one of the brides,” Sasha answered.

“They really put her in the bridal party?” Rhys asked, surprised. Sasha gave him a quick smile.

“I couldn’t believe it either. It sounds like Janey insisted they have at least two people in their parties, and Athena doesn’t have many friends… Anyway, long story short, Athena asked and Fiona said yes.”

“She must’ve been thrilled,” Rhys said drily.

“You’d be surprised,” Sasha said. “Fiona plays at being tough, but underneath all that bluster and outlaw charm, she’s kind of a marshmallow.”

Rhys tried to imagine Fiona being soft or sentimental about anything, but the picture just wouldn’t line up. He also couldn’t picture any of her ‘outlaw charm’, so it was possible Sasha was reading things into her sister that no one else could see.

“Do you know who else’s been roped into the party?” Rhys asked.

“Janey’s got people from Elpis, apparently. Athena asked another vault hunter.”

Rhys felt grateful that he didn’t have a drink in his hand. No doubt he would’ve choked comically on a mouthful at the news.

Rhys knew it was a risk, coming to Athena’s wedding, that he might see the other vault hunters. He decided that wouldn’t keep him from attending, although it was a close thing.

He’d seen a few of them in Sanctuary before—the big guy with all the guns, the handsome blond commando, the mummified sniper, the blue-haired siren—but he’d never gotten close enough to make introductions. Every time one of them would came into Moxxi’s, she’d always let him leave through the back. He didn’t know if they might harbour any bitterness about Hyperion’s role in the Vault of the Destroyer fiasco, but he didn’t really want to find out.

“Really?” Rhys scanned the crowd, but couldn’t see any of the Sanctuary citizens.

“So I hear,” Sasha said with a shrug. Any further conversation was stalled, as the music started and a man dressed in black appeared at the front of the room.

He cleared his throat. “If everyone could just take their seats…”

Everyone milled about, trying to find a place on the benches. Rhys followed Sasha to a bench towards the front.

As they settled in, Rhys heard the quiet buzz become a hiss of excited conversation. He craned his neck, assuming the brides’ had made an appearance, but he couldn’t find them.

Puzzled, he looked around until he heard someone murmur, _“…heard he had a body double…”._

Rhys’ head snapped around and he spotted him almost immediately, dressed in a black suit, slinking from the curtained off entrance behind the altar, rubbing one hand across his bare, scarred face. He kept his gaze lowered, his expression empty and peaceful.

The double, without his mask.

He slipped into the front-most bench, close enough that Rhys could see the freckles at the back of his neck.

 _God_ , that scar was something else. Rhys had suspected there was something terrible behind the mask—why else would Jack wear it? Everyone at Hyperion had theories, added grist to the rumour mill. A common one was that it’d been an old injury, maybe something inflicted by the vault hunters. Handsome Jack had hated them all so much. There must’ve been a reason. An old hurt.

Of course, Rhys had given it a lot of thought. Especially after that night on Eris. Rhys had told himself that he’d given up on any romantic future with Handsome Jack, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t play pretend.

In Rhys’ imaginings, when Jack finally opened the softer parts of himself up to Rhys, he would show him what he’d been hiding. And in Rhys’ story, the wound was bad, but it wasn’t disfiguring.

The real thing looked deep. A curve of an upside-down V that went over the double’s eye, leaving him with only the blue one. The green was a milky white loss. It looked like someone had taken a white-hot brand and stamped a vault symbol into his face.

That, Rhys realised with a queasy feeling, was probably exactly what happened.

The double didn’t look around. The murmurs died down as the music finally swelled to life, a beautiful recording that played from hidden speakers. People turned away, finally, and Rhys waited a few seconds before he did too.

The double stared resolutely at the front.

* * *

Rhys couldn’t remember the last time he’d been to a wedding. He could dimly recall sitting between his parents, dressed in an itchy rental tuxedo that didn’t fit right, that still showed off an inch of ankle, watching a set of grooms stand in front of a floral-bedecked altar. The whole memory felt draped in gauze; possessing a shimmery, pale quality, as if his mental lens had been smeared with vaseline. He could remember kicking his feet against the underside of his chair, looking around for the other kids, trying to spot one of them crying like a baby. Because someone had told him that people cried at weddings, and he wanted to see it.

He heard his mother sniff. When he looked up he saw her normally strong chin trembling, tears dripping from her red face in almost complete silence. He looked away quickly, embarrassed and confused.

This time, Rhys did his best to pay attention. It was a lovely ceremony. The brides stood tall and proud before their altar, flanked on either side by their party. Janey had two people Rhys didn’t recognize, both men dressed in black suits and green ties.

Athena’s party was composed of two women: Fiona, looking polished and professional in a black dress with a golden jacket; and a tall, blue-eyed woman Rhys didn’t recognize, dressed in a similar, but sleeker version of Fiona’s outfit. She cast her gaze upon the room as if she were assigning dollar value to each item, composing a tally and finding it coming up short. She sneered with every muscle on her face except for the ones that used her mouth. It was quite a skill.

Athena, straight-backed and chin held high, standing before their officiant, looking like she was ready to ride out to battle. Janey at her side, holding a bouquet, a little more at ease than her still-fiancée, soon-to-be-wife.

As their officiant went on about dedication, love, commitment, and the values of partnership, Athena seemed to grow tense. Her white-knuckled hands balled into fists at her sides, her chest moving with each long, deep breath she took. Rhys couldn’t see her face from where he sat, but he could see the way her shoulders began to inch up to her ears.

He could see the crescent of Janey’s face, half-turned towards Athena. She gave her a gentle smile, reached out and touched her hand with the tips of her fingers. The tension drained from Athena like a demon banished. She turned towards Janey and Rhys could only see a sliver of her face, but he thought he saw the barest hint of a smile.

Someone sniffed. Rhys didn’t look around, because he knew. As if he’d already seen it happen in a dream. His gaze drifted towards the double.

His eyes wet and shining, the slightest tremble in his chin. Rhys wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t seen it for himself. He still didn’t know if he believed it.

The double sniffed again, blinking rapidly. Rhys reached into his jacket without really thinking, and leaned forward.

“Here,” he whispered, holding a white handkerchief out. The double stiffened, his jaw clicking. He cast a sideways glance over his shoulder to Rhys. His lips were pressed tightly together, his nostrils flaring.

Rhys kept his eyes on the front of the room, like he barely noticed the double was there. Like they didn’t recognize each other.

Just like before, Rhys felt struck at the sight of a grown-up crying at a wedding. He felt a little embarrassed, confused.

The double didn’t say anything. He took Rhys’ handkerchief.

* * *

Once the ceremony was complete, and the brides became wives, everyone stood up and applauded. And once they’d finished that, and the newlyweds had walked with swan-like grace outside, their parties falling into step behind them, things became a little less formal.

Everyone heard the magic phrase ‘cocktail hour’ and had gone on the hunt for the open bar, directed by harried ushers. Rhys found himself swept up in the crowd, Sasha at his side.

“I wonder where Fiona went?” she murmured, craning her neck to see above the crowds.

The double had vanished, too. Would he have gone home already? Before the free booze could be served? Rhys fought against a sting of disappointment.

Sasha eventually found Fiona, once her sister and the rest of the party had been released by the photographer.

“I can’t believe this,” she told them. Her eyes were bright and her face looked flushed. “I’ve never been in a wedding before. I think I did okay.”

“You did just fine,” Sasha said, patting Fiona on the arm. “I really like your outfit.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without a hat,” Rhys said. Fiona scowled at him.

Fiona enjoyed only a quick drink before someone called her back for more photos. She rushed out of the hall, looking ready to storm a bandit camp armed with only the toothpick she’d eaten a piece of chicken off of.

Rhys made more than a few trips to the bar during the lulls. He kept his eyes open, scanning the crowd each time, but he didn’t spot that set of broad shoulders, that familiar silhouette that looked as if it’d been designed to be carved in marble, printed on posters. A flash of teeth, a smile made for screens. The double really might’ve left for good, and he’d taken Rhys’ handkerchief with him. Rhys didn’t mind, exactly, but he would’ve liked the excuse to see him again. He would’ve loved to have found out why he’d been there in the first place.

Rhys sipped his water. He spotted Sasha by the wall, now talking animatedly with a scarred young man Rhys didn’t recognize. She didn’t look in need of rescue. Rhys felt a little disappointed, but maybe not as much as he should have.

Looking at Sasha, in her burgundy dress and her kitten heels, and feeling a sort of strange nostalgia for something he’d never had, Rhys felt old for the first time.

Shame to think his crush might be fizzling so quickly. He could remember when a crush was like a wave that put him under. He could remember huddling under his blankets, eyes glued to a screen, writing and re-writing midnight missives. Sweaty palms and a pounding heart, reading and rereading every message he got in return, scrutinizing each word, looking for clues and hidden meanings in a simple ‘lol’.

Vaughn sent him a message, letting him know he’d been further delayed. Rhys told him it was fine. A few people gave Rhys appraising looks that he pretended not to see. He grabbed a glass of sparkling wine from the pouring station and drifted outside.

It was a little too chilly for most people, especially those who’d come in dresses and skirts that left their legs bare. Even Rhys, in his three-piece, felt a chill under every layer when the wind came in off the water. He missed his Atlas greenhouse, where the warm air smelled like soil and flowers, plants and compost. The strong scent of things living and dead.

He wandered out further from the patio, to where a small copse of trees tried valiantly to grow in spite of everything Pandora could throw at them, and the grass started to grow tall against the walls of a small maintenance shed. Rhys didn’t know what he was looking for. Peace and quiet, maybe. Maybe he just wanted someone to come out and find him.

Rhys sipped his wine and sent a silent wish to the uncaring universe. He really hoped the double hadn’t left.

And maybe the universe had his back for once, because as soon as he approached the shed, he began to hear voices.

“…appreciate your patronage, really, but I’m just out here for the wedding.”

Rhys’ pulse jumped. He went quiet and listened.

“No need to be like that. Just a quick session, that’s all I’m after. An hour of your time. I’ve been thinking about you all week, baby. It’s gotta be fate we met up here.” A man’s voice with an oily sheen Rhys could feel.

He crept around the side of the building, uncertain why he felt the need to remain silent. He caught sight of the double, his back against the shed and a glass of wine in his hand, held up between himself and the other man like a barrier. The other one stood opposite, one hand braced against the wall, right beside the double’s head. The double was smiling, even as the man leaned in further.

“You know what you do to me, sweetheart? I can’t get you out of my head. I keep thinking about our last time together…” He lowered his voice and Rhys shouldn’t be here for this. He shouldn’t lurk in the grass like a fucking snake, listening to someone speak in that tone, use those words.

“You on your knees for me. Your face so sweet. All those pretty bruises I gave you. Did you keep them like I asked? Did you feel me the next day, sugar?”

When the stranger leaned further, pushed his way into the double’s personal space, until they were practically sharing their exhales, Rhys felt something inside of him light up like a road flare. It sparked behind his eyes, ugly and hot.          

Rhys shouldn’t be here. He would’ve left, right then and there, if the double didn’t put his hand in the centre of the stranger’s chest, his other hand holding the glass between them.

“Look. This is very… flattering, don’t get me wrong, and I’m glad you think so highly of my services. But I’m not here to work today. I’m just another guest at a friend’s wedding.” He gave him a smile, somehow plastic even without the mask. “Why don’t you give me a call tomorrow? We can set up a date.”

The man looked down at the double’s hand with a frown. “You’ve been awfully busy, lately. This is first time I’ve seen you.”

“I can’t help being popular.” He straightened from his slouch, his smile still fixed in place, and gave the stranger a gentle push, forcing him back onto his heels. “I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

The stranger reached out, grabbed the double be his arm.

“Hey—!” The double’s friendly expression dropped. “Hands off, pal.”

“Who the fuck do you think you are? Huh?” the stranger demanded. He tried to tug the double close.

Something terrible was happening in the double’s face. Rhys wondered if he was about to witness a murder.

“There you are!”

Rhys didn’t realise he’d stepped out of hiding until he heard his own voice. The stranger gave Rhys an ugly look as he approached.

The man had a sleek, well-groomed look to him; the sort of guy who put a lot of work into appearing to be worth more than his surroundings. Rhys knew within a second of meeting his eyes just what sort of man he was. It was like looking into a mirror.

Rhys ignored him. He aimed a bright smile at the double, touched his sleeve with the tips of his fingers. The stranger pulled his hand back.

“Yeah. Here I am,” the double said slowly.

“The bride’s been looking everywhere for you,” Rhys said, already pulling him away. “She said there’s some kind of emergency? They need your help with the thing you told them about.”

“Right. Of course.”

The double’s eyebrows were high but he didn’t resist as Rhys lead him towards the hall. He did not say goodbye to the other man. Rhys tried not to feel too smug about that.

* * *

They didn’t talk on the way back. The double pulled ahead of Rhys, walked through the hall, through the reception and past all the guests with his head high and his gaze fixed straight ahead. He moved with purpose and confidence, like one of the brides really had called him away for some emergency. Rhys followed him without really thinking about it.

They ended up in a hallway downstairs, past a sign clearly marked ‘Employees Only’. The double didn’t seem bothered by it. Rhys decided he wasn’t either.

He turned on Rhys when they’d found someplace almost entirely silent, removed from everyone else.

Rhys realised, maybe too late, that following Handsome Jack’s body double into a secluded location, without telling a soul where he’d gone, where he’d have to scream awful loud to get heard over the din coming from the kitchen, was perhaps not the best idea. The double’s expression didn’t seem friendly. No more smiles for him.

The double wouldn’t actually hurt him, would he? Rhys was one of his customers, and that asshole upstairs had to push pretty hard before he got the teeth and claws treatment. Rhys folded his arms over his chest, like they could offer protection from whatever might happen next.

“I hope you didn’t mind the interruption,” Rhys said, aiming for casual.

The double eyed him, like he was looking for something on Rhys. “It’s fine,” he said at last. Rhys tried to believe him.

“But you should know,” the double went on, leaning against the wall opposite, “I meant what I said out there. I appreciate your help, but I’m not here to work tonight, Rhys.”

Rhys felt a lot of things in that very second, things that fought inside his head and chest. Elation that the double had remembered his name against an overwhelming swell of disgust and guilt that filled him like cold water. That sort of giddiness was hard to deny, but guilt had inroads into Rhys’ heart.

He knows your name, but you don’t even know his.

Disgust won the day. Rhys looked aside.

“I know that. I heard what you told him. That isn’t why I interrupted,” he said. He tried to smile. “Believe it or not, I’m just out for a friend’s wedding, too.”

The double didn’t look entirely convinced. “Right. Well. Thanks.” He patted down his pockets. “I guess I should thank you for this too, right? Here.” He held out the handkerchief.

Rhys held up his hands. “It’s okay. You can hang onto it, if you’d like.”

The double lowered his hand slowly. “Alright. Thanks again. Although.” He glanced at Rhys, one corner of his lips lifting. “I should probably let you know that I’m used to receiving a certain quality of gift from my clients. I know Atlas is still in its short pants, but I hope you set me up with something nice soon, stretch. I’m a big fan of luxury vehicles, but if you wanted to pay a month’s rent, I wouldn’t say no.”

“What’s your name?” Rhys asked, surprising them both.

The smirk fell away. “Tim,” he said.

“I should’ve asked you that sooner. I wish I had,” Rhys said. “I’m sorry I didn’t.”

“It’s fine. Most of my clients don’t.”

Rhys stared at him, completely unselfconscious about what his face might be doing. Tim chuckled.

“Stow the puppy-dog eyes, kid. I don’t put my name on my business card for a reason, you know?” he said.

Rhys nodded and tried to convince himself it was true, things were fine, he was overreacting. How many glasses of sparkling wine had he had? Rhys sipped his current glass while he tried to do the math. He’d only eaten a few appetizers, too. Rhys took another sip.

“So.” The stiffness eased out of Tim’s posture. “If you didn’t bring me out here for a quick one against the wall,” he said with a grin. Rhys’ face burned. “Why are we here, Rhys?”

“I didn’t bring you here. You brought yourself here. I just followed,” Rhys said, trying and failing not to sound defensive.

“Why’d you follow me, then?”

“I… You seemed upset. I just wanted to see if you were okay.” The booze had already brought a flush to Rhys’ face. Must’ve had more than he thought.

Tim’s smile grew. “Do I look upset to you?”

“You did before,” Rhys said.

“That guy was being an asshole. I thought I did a pretty good job keeping my cool for as long as I did,” Tim said.

Rhys thought back to the look he’d seen on Tim, the way the scar twisted with his scowl, dead milk-white eye making it look all the uglier. Like a mask to scare children.

There was no sign of that horror show now. Tim’s expression was relaxed, his plastic smile back in place. Rhys wondered what that scar might feel like under his fingers. He wondered if it still hurt from time to time.

“Anyway. Thanks again for your assist.” Tim straightened from his slouch, pushed off from the wall.

A spike of panic pumped through Rhys’ head, a sharp realization that he’d found his way back to life’s roulette table. He’d barely even noticed until he heard the clatter of the wheel spinning. He’d never let an opportunity pass him by before, especially when it dropped in his lap like this.

Rhys licked his lips. He had to play this carefully.

“Do you—?” Rhys bit back a wince at loud and sudden his voice seemed. He gathered his calm and tried again. “Are you going back upstairs?” Better.

“Well, yes. It seems a little rude to spend the wedding hiding out in the basement,” Tim said.

But he didn’t move to push past Rhys. Admittedly, that might be down to the same thing that stopped him from bashing that creep’s face in before, but Rhys liked to think he wasn’t as slimy, nor as unpleasant, as that man had been.

Rhys kept his distance from Tim, careful to keep his arms crossed loosely in front of his chest, his glass held in one hand.

“You were hiding outside before,” Rhys pointed out.

“That wasn’t hiding, that was… taking a moment to myself,” Tim said.

Rhys recalled the way Tim had held himself during the ceremony. The sound of everyone else’s whispers, and the way he didn’t react, like he couldn’t hear them. Face pointed straight ahead, shoulders straight and chin tipped high. Unbowed and unafraid.

Rhys was a swan now, but he could remember being a tall, gangly duckling. Back when he had braces and bad skin and he was a million miles taller than everyone, he remembered how it felt as if he was always being watched, and judged. That’d all been in his head, of course. Rhys wondered what it must feel like to know when it wasn’t.

“Right. Well, I was thinking of taking a moment to myself. Maybe taking a bottle of wine and a tray of those little meat skewer things to myself too,” Rhys said. He smiled. “You want to join me?”

Tim’s smile remained, but there was something going on in his eyes. Rhys couldn’t explain how he knew it, but something about the way Tim looked at him became a little less friendly. And a little less impersonal.

“I told you before, Rhys. I’m not working tonight.”

“I’m not asking you to fuck me, Tim. I just wanted to spend some time with you.”

“Why? I don’t give discounts to friends,” Tim said.

“That’s fine, I wasn’t planning on asking for any,” Rhys replied.

“What are you asking for?”

Life was filled with opportunities, and every one worth anything was a gamble. Rhys’ mother’s philosophy had been ‘nothing ventured, nothing gained’. It was the sort of thing she liked to tell him before she poured their rent money down the throats of slot machines all over the city. Rhys took a lot of lessons from her, many that she didn’t intend to teach him. He learned to never put anything on the line that you couldn’t afford to lose.

This wasn’t a shut down. Tim was looking to be convinced. He was looking for the conversation.

“I’m just asking for a little bit of your time. An hour,” Rhys said.

Tim’s smile didn’t move, but his eyes narrowed. “Why?”

Now it was Rhys’ turn to laugh. Just what sort of question was that?

“To get to know you, dummy,” he said. “Why else?”

“ _Why?”_ The mean look was fading away, replaced by bafflement.

Rhys stared at him blankly. “Because? I don’t know what you’re looking for, Tim. I just want to get to know you. Not everything has an ulterior motive, you know.”

Tim looked like he didn’t believe him. He drummed his fingers against his arm. He looked at the wall beside Rhys’ head, and then at the ceiling, like he was looking for a clue, or a secret message, something that might give him an idea of what he should do next.

Then he looked at Rhys’ face. Rhys smiled, open and without guile.

“You can really get a bottle of wine?” he asked. Rhys’ smile widened.

“Piece of cake,” he said. “Actually, I could probably grab us some cake too.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Tim said. He flicked his gaze up to the ceiling. “This place’s got a roof. The access is sealed with some kind of number lock, but that should be no problem for someone who’s half-robot.”

“Cyborg. How do you know all this?” Rhys asked.

“I’m very observant. Meet me up there, alright? You grab the wine, and I’ll grab the food.”

Rhys watched his number come up, felt joy rise in his chest like balloons at a parade. He’d never end up like his mother, but at his weakest he could understand her addiction. There was really nothing like winning.

“It’s a date,” he said.

* * *

Grabbing wine was easy. Rhys sent Vaughn a quick note, letting him know that he might be busy for a while, but it was nothing to worry about. Vaughn didn’t respond immediately, which could’ve been a sign that he was on his way, or that he was too busy to reply. Rhys hoped for the former.

The rooftop was nice, but clearly not meant for the public. A generator sat to one side, semi-hidden from view at the front, and a water cistern on the other end. Rhys picked the side with the cistern, where they would get a better view of the lake. The sun had started to sink below the horizon, and its golden light seemed to set the sky on fire, reflecting off the wispy clouds. The air off the water was chilly, but not enough to drive him inside.

It was, he had to admit, pretty romantic. It couldn’t have been any better if he’d planned it out.

What were his intentions here? Rhys uncorked the bottle of sparkling and poured himself a glass while he tried to think it over. He’d meant what he’d told Tim: he wanted to get to know him, to learn a little more about the sort of person who’d get himself surgically altered to look like someone else, never mind to look like Handsome Jack. The sort of person who could sit proud and placid under the weight of everyone’s stares.

That was true. But that wasn’t Rhys’ only motivation.

Tim must’ve known Jack better than anyone. He might even know a thing or two that Rhys, who’d spent almost a month with the dead man stuck in his head, wouldn’t know. Maybe Jack would’ve told him about his past conquests. Maybe he mentioned something about a night on Eris…

Rhys shut that line of thought down. No point in getting fanciful. Tim might know some of Jack’s secrets, but Rhys doubted he knew anything about the one and only time he’d shared a bed with Handsome Jack.

“Not much of a view, is it?” Tim’s shoes clicked against the roof with each step. He had a tray covered with a white napkin balanced in one hand. He cast Rhys a brief smile. “I guess we get what we pay for,” he said.

“I think it’s alright for Pandora. I don’t get to see the lake much anymore,” Rhys said.

Tim took his seat beside him, lowering himself and the tray carefully. “Pour me a drink, will you?” he said as he set the plate between them.

“What’d you get us? Those meat skewer things?” Rhys asked as he picked up the bottle.

“You think so little of me. You really think I would only get us one measly plate of meat?”

“I like the meat skewers,” Rhys said.

“Well, prepare to be impressed.” Tim pulled back the napkin with a flourish, revealing a colourful spread. Rhys leaned over it with a frown.

“What is it?”

“Fruit! Actual, honest to god fruit. Do you know how hard this stuff is to find around here? I couldn’t believe Athena actually sprung for real fruit. It must’ve been at Janey’s request. I had to scare some poor waiter into giving me this.”

Rhys considered asking if he’d gotten them meat skewers as well, but a brief glance at Tim’s face made him reconsider.

Tim was smiling, and it wasn’t a half-smile or a grin or a smirk or anything else he’d normally shoot Rhys’ way. It looked like the real deal, something brought out by genuine, uncomplicated pleasure. That he was aiming it at a plate of food was neither here nor there. Rhys’ heart gave a loud thump, a single knock against his chest.

“What kind of fruit?” Rhys asked.

“Looks like the stuff they grow over on the eastern side of the continent.” He picked a slice of something with red-violet skin and white flesh. “This one’s like an apple, but a bit softer. The one with the white skin and the pink interior is like a peach, but it’s tart. These little green guys are just berries.”

“Do they have names?” Rhys asked.

Tim shrugged and popped the slice into his mouth. “‘Apple’ is as good a name as any, don’t you think? Try some. You could probably use a little sweetness in your diet.”

“What makes you think I don’t have a sweet tooth?” Rhys asked as he picked up one of the berries.

Tim’s genuine smile shrank into a grin. “Because I know a thing or two about where your tastes run, Rhys.”

Yes. He certainly did. Rhys took a sip from his glass. The dry wine felt too tart, too harsh with the sweet fruit, but Rhys knew it wouldn’t matter. They’d still drink the whole bottle.

“Never mind that,” Rhys said. “I’ve been told we’re not up here to work.”

“I may not be working, but that doesn’t mean you get to pretend I don’t work for you at all,” Tim said through a mouthful of apple. “Especially when it means I get to make you blush.”

“That’s not hard to do,” Rhys pointed out.

“Doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy it.”

Rhys knew he was being teased, but he couldn’t bring himself to mind. Tim had all but admitted he enjoyed being with Rhys.

“I think I should know what would make _you_ blush,” Rhys said. “It’s only fair.”

“Is it.” Tim picked up some of the peach.

“You could give me a hint,” Rhys said, nudging Tim’s calf with the tip of his boots.

“That doesn’t seem like it would be fun for me,” Tim said.

“What could embarrass Tim… What was your last name?”

“Lawrence.”

“Tim Lawrence. What could embarrass Tim Lawrence?” Rhys considered his question while he poured himself another glass. Tim watched him drink with an amused expression. “Childhood photos, maybe?”

“Good luck finding those,” Tim said.

“What about stories? Everyone’s got something embarrassing from their childhood they try to forget. Like… maybe you got lost at the zoo and started crying.”

“That doesn’t seem embarrassing,” Tim pointed out.

“It is if you were thirteen when it happened,” Rhys said ruefully. Tim’s eyebrows went up.

“Are you telling me you got lost at the zoo and cried about it when you were a pre-teen?” he asked, grin spreading.

“I’m not telling you anything. You’re telling me something. Where’d you grow up?”

Tim sat back against the wall, cradling his glass of bubbly between his legs. “You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”

“I’m always serious,” Rhys said, tapping his temple. “Would a non-serious man go and replace his brain with computers?”

“I don’t know. I don’t really have a good sample size for that query. You’re the second half-robot I’ve ever met.”

Rhys nudged him again. “Cyborg. You know it’s cyborg. I think you’re just saying the wrong thing to make me angry.”

“This is you angry?”

God, Tim’s grin was infuriating in just the right way. It was hard work not to smile back. Hard work not to lean over and touch his fingers to those lips, the way he’d done countless times before. Rhys held himself back, because this wasn’t like those other times and he wouldn’t touch Tim out here.

“I could get angrier,” Rhys admitted. Tim grinned even as he drank. “You better hope you don’t wake the beast.”

Tim snorted on his drink. “Fuck, ‘the beast’?” he sputtered through his laughter.

“That’s right. I can get pretty scary.” Rhys wondered if he should’ve been offended at the look Tim gave him. “Tell me something about your childhood before I get really annoyed.”

“So bossy. I guess I should’ve known that already,” Tim said with a gleam in his eye.

Rhys leaned in a little, taking care where he put his hand. “That’s right,” he said with a half-drunk leer.

He didn’t look good, he knew, even though he’d managed to avoid putting his hand into the fruit. He was flushed and already more than a little drunk, making goofy faces at his favourite prostitute. This might’ve bothered him any other time, but he just couldn’t care right then. It wasn’t as if he were trying to seduce Tim, anyway.

“Stop trying to distract me. Tell me something about your childhood.”

“You first,” Tim said.

“I already did. I was sad and alone at a zoo. Your turn.”

“See, when you put it like that, it’s a lot less funny,” Tim said.

Rhys glared at him. He pulled up a time display on his palm and stared pointedly at it. Tim held up his hands.

“Fine, fine, whatever you say, sugar lips. Let’s see…” Tim sipped his drink as Rhys sputtered. He cast his gaze out to the golden-tipped waves coming off the lake. “Well. There was this one time, when I was… Gosh, must’ve been twelve? I was twelve and I’d fallen in love with my teacher, Ms. Yoon. She was so nice.” His expression grew distant, fond. “She never picked on me for answers, but she always wrote nice things on my tests and essays. She was the first person to tell me that I had some talent with writing.”

“You write?” Rhys asked.

Tim’s smile froze for a split-second, looking as if he’d been caught out in something he hadn’t intended to admit. The moment passed quickly, and his expression smoothed over. He drank more wine.

“Not anymore,” he said lightly. “Anyway, I sound happy about it now, but back then that crush was the worst thing that’d ever happened to me. Every night I thought I was dying. I just had so many feelings for her and I wasn’t prepared to deal with any of them. I read a lot of poems and stuff back then, and I sort of got it into my head that the thing you do when you’re in love is that you express it to the person you’re in love with. And she said that she liked my writing, so…”

Rhys stared at him, waiting for the line to pick back up. It might’ve been the light, but Tim was starting to look a little pink around the cheeks.

“Did you write her a poem?” Rhys asked, when Tim didn’t speak further.

Tim winced. “God. I wish. I, uh. I had this friend who claimed she learned how to play guitar watching videos on the ‘net and I thought, well, how hard could it be?”

“Oh boy.”

“So I picked up a guitar for cheap and started learning, and writing down lyrics…” Tim winced and took another drink. Rhys wordlessly refilled his glass. “It took me weeks to finish one song, but when it was done I knew it was right. I just needed to figure out the best way to give it to her. And, well, there was a school-wide talent competition coming up…”

“Oh no.”

“I was so in love with her,” Tim said, burying his face in one hand. “I wasn’t thinking straight! My poor developing brain was drowning in hormones! There’s a reason children aren’t held accountable for crimes they commit at that age.”

“So… how did it go?”

“About as well as you might think.” Tim rubbed his face, wincing a little. “She was very gentle when she broke my heart into a thousand pieces. My classmates were not so gentle when they cornered me in the hall. For the rest of my time at that school, people sang that song every time they saw me. It was like having my own phantasm, the ghost of the music I’d killed that day, haunting me through the mouths of my classmates.”

Rhys tried hard not to laugh, but he could feel it crawling up his spine, shaking his shoulders.

“That’s… That’s really…” His voice trembled.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, sugar lips.” Tim polished half of his second drink off in two mouthfuls.

Rhys tried to imagine it, little pre-teen Tim. Shorter and smaller, maybe with the shiny face and bad skin all but a few were cursed with at that age. Maybe he had braces, too. He wondered what that hawkish nose and that lantern jaw must’ve looked like as puberty struck his body and face like a wrecking ball.

And then he recalled Tim wouldn’t have looked like that at all.

“What did you used to look like?” Rhys asked as Tim eyed the wine.

“Ugly,” Tim said, reaching over Rhys’ lap for the bottle.

Rhys frowned. “How ugly?”

“Ugly enough that I couldn’t do this job. Or, at least, ugly enough that I wouldn’t get clients that looked like you,” Tim replied.

Rhys looked down at his lap. He tried to think of something witty to say, something to rescue the conversation from its current trajectory. He’d never been good with pity.

“But being ugly was okay,” Tim went on through what sounded like a mouthful of fruit. “It forced me to develop certain talents. Not a lot of people were looking to hop into bed with me, so I got pretty good at oral. Are we still talking about embarrassing stories? The second love of my life was a guy named Hiro, which was just perfect because he looked like one. You know how on television shows, all the teens have chiselled faces and clear, glowing skin? Hiro was like that. I’m pretty sure half the school was in love with him, including some of the teachers.

“Anyway, by that point, I’d learned my lesson about romance and poetry. I was at a party and drunk for the first time ever, and he was there, and we were playing Seven Minutes in Heaven and my buddy actually helped me out and made sure Hiro and I were put together.” He paused for another drink. Rhys watched his throat work. “Anyway, we get into the closet and I get on my knees and he doesn’t even push me away. He kind of laughed, but he didn’t try to stop me. I gave him my first ever blow job. Because I was such a dweeb, I actually read up on how to do it before the party. I managed to get most of him into my mouth and I didn’t throw up all over him. I even swallowed when he came.

“Sitting there in the dark, between a bunch of coats that smelled like stale winter, I actually thought I’d done a good job. I felt so proud. And I thought maybe I could see him again. Like, maybe I’d sucked a relationship from his dick with my incredible blow job prowess.” Tim wiggled his fingers, his upper lip curling.

Rhys waited while Tim took another drink. “What happened?” he asked.

“He said thanks. Petted me on the head. Left me there. Next day, there’s an anonymous post on the student body boards, outing me as a cockslut.” Tim snorted. “I suck one dick and suddenly I’m a cockslut. That’s teens for you. I did get more popular after that, at least.”

“Did anything happen between you and Hiro after that?” Rhys asked.

Tim rolled his eyes. “Oh yeah. He confessed his love to me at prom. We’re still married.”

Rhys considered the half-eaten tray of fruit, a flush rising to his cheeks. “You get pretty mean when you’re drinking, huh.”

“Sorry.” Tim didn’t sound like he meant it. “I don’t usually drink. But hey, let me know if you want more embarrassing stories about my past as an ugly, unpopular kid. I got a million of ‘em.”

Rhys plucked a slice of pink apple from the plate and popped it into his mouth. After the wine, it tasted sour.

“I lost my virginity when I was seventeen to a girl who hated me,” Rhys said. Tim’s expression didn’t change, but his eyebrow quirked just a little. Emboldened, Rhys went on. “Her name was Miracle Akhavan and, by the sounds of things, she probably could’ve been Hiro’s co-star in that teen drama they must’ve fallen out of.”

“A pretty girl, huh,” Tim said.

“The prettiest. Mean as a cat, though. Not to everyone, or so I heard. Apparently, she could be downright decent to her friends, but I never saw that. I don’t know what it was she saw in me, but she always gave me a hard time. She used to call me ‘beanpole’.”

“There really aren’t any good, degrading names for tall people, are there?” Tim mused.

“Sometimes she called me ‘giraffe-fucker’,” Rhys said. Tim snorted into his wine, sputtering. “Yeah, it was real hilarious then, too.”

“Shit.” Tim wiped the tears from his eyes. “Sorry.”

“No, you’re not. Anyway, she and her pals used to corner me outside of the learning modules. Their big thing was calling me virgin. ‘Hey, virgin, you got any plans this weekend?’ ‘You gonna play Bunkers and Badasses this weekend, virgin?’ ‘When are you gonna kill yourself, virgin?’ One time she grabbed my crotch right there in the hall, and loudly announced to everyone that I’d gotten hard just from that.” Rhys picked at the fruit, nudging a slice towards the edge of the plate. “I hadn’t,” he clarified.

“Shit,” Tim said. The mirth had drained from his voice. “That’s really awful, kid.”

Rhys shrugged. He popped one of the green berries into his mouth. The flavour was watery, weak, but a nice, mild change from the apple.

“When you said you lost virginity to her, she didn’t…” Tim trailed off, looking stricken.

Rhys nearly choked. “Oh, god, no no no. She didn’t rape me. She just cornered me one day after drama, when we were both trying to get dressed, and she told me that she couldn’t stand my stupid face and she wanted to fuck me senseless. I thought she was just teasing me again, or that her friends were hiding somewhere with an ECHOtab, recording the whole thing. But she just got in my face and started aggressively begging. ‘Please fuck me you stupid asshole, I hate you but I need your dick inside of me right now.’” Rhys smiled weakly at the memory. “I guess I’ve always had a thing for forceful partners.”

“So… you did it?” Tim asked.

Rhys nodded. “Lost my virginity in the drama room. I probably wasn’t the first kid to do so. I don’t think I did too bad a job, either. She made fun of me the whole time, which didn’t make me feel too good. When she was finished, she told me that I disgusted her and that if I told anyone about this, she would cut my dick off. Then she left me there.”

“Yeah.” Tim considered the waves, scratching the length of his nose. “Yeah, that does sound like a pretty bad first time. I think the most embarrassing part is how you used to be a drama kid.”

It really was very easy to make Rhys blush. “It was only for a semester, and only because I had a crush on one of the other students.”

“Did they hear about your little tryst with Miracle?”

“No,” Rhys said with a sigh. “And even if they had, they wouldn’t have cared. I might as well’ve been invisible to them.”

Tim sighed and let his head fall back against the wall. “Yep. I can name that tune in three bars.” He reached for the wine again. “Ah, shit. Well, if we’re gonna keep digging into depressing teen stories, we’re gonna need another bottle.”

Rhys nodded and started to pull himself to his feet. Tim grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

“Nah, nah, I’ll get it.”

Rhys peered at him. “You sure?”

“You got the last one. I’ll take care of this one.” He glanced at the bottle and at their glasses. “Another white okay with you?” Rhys nodded. “Good. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Rhys smiled and kept smiling even when Tim turned away. He didn’t like thinking about Miracle and his first time, of lying on his back in a cold and empty room, if he could help it, but more than a decade had blunted the sting of the memory.

That Tim would stick around to talk some more might’ve helped things, too.

* * *

“What did you look like, though?” Rhys chewed the question around a mouthful of puffed pastry and hot cheese.

Tim had outdone himself, returning to their secret spot with another bottle of white wine and three plates balanced on his arms. He’d brought the meat skewers Rhys liked, a detail that made Rhys want to kiss him on the lips. More than usual.

“I already told you.” Tim worked on the bottle with a stolen corkscrew. “I was ugly.” The cork came free with a hollow pop.

“That’s _all_ you’ve told me. I want details.” Rhys nudged his leg with his golden tipped boots. “I bet you weren’t as ugly as you think.”

Tim snorted as he filled their glasses.

“Tell me,” Rhys demanded.

“God, you’re bossy.” He knocked back a mouthful, swallowing quickly. He leaned against the wall, letting his eyes slip shut for a moment. He tapped his fingers against his thigh and sighed.

“I had a big nose,” he said at last. “Too big for my face. I was skinny, like you, but I didn’t look as good. All gangle, no grace. I had an overbite, worse than Jack’s, and kind of a weak chin. Typical scrawny nerd. Red hair, freckles, corrective lenses. The whole nine yards.” He cracked his good eye open. “You wouldn’t have given me a second look.”

It felt like a challenge, one Rhys wasn’t sure he should rise to. He wanted to rush to assure Tim that he would’ve, that he wasn’t so shallow as he might think, but part of him wondered. He picked up a mini quiche and thought it over.

“I like you,” he said at last.

Tim furrowed his brows, like Rhys had started speaking a different language.

“Yeah.” Rhys turned his gaze towards the sky, seeking higher inspiration. The stars were coming out, white and dim and barely visible in a sky crowded with the shine of Elpis.

“Yeah,” he said again. “I like you, Tim. I bet I would’ve given you a second look.” He knocked his skag-skin boots against Tim’s polished dress shoes once again. “Especially if you had a few drinks in you.”

“I thought you said I was a mean drunk.” Tim sounded a little strange. Rhys grinned at him crookedly.

“I said I’ve always had a thing for mean partners.”

Tim looked down at his glass. He swirled the wine, like he was a connoisseur and not already half in the bag. “You like it best when you’ve got someone to be mean to you in bed?”

Rhys took his time thinking over the answer to that one, too. The ‘yes’ perched ready and obvious on his tongue, but something about the way Tim asked made him reconsider. Made him think about a night a long, long time ago, about a bed that wasn’t his, about big, warm hands gripping his hips, a strong body hovering above, protective and sweet and there just for Rhys to touch. His heart pumped with an old longing.

“Not always,” Rhys admitted at last.

Tim opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, but he closed it without a word. He glanced at Rhys’ face, and then at his hands. He reached for the plates lined up like a barrier between them, and plucked a meat skewer from one.

Rhys took another pastry. He wished Tim hadn’t asked him that. He wished he could stop thinking of Jack like that. It was better to think of him as he’d been during the fall of Helios. That snide, sneering digital nightmare, leering out of a dozen screens. Better to think of him as someone who could trick and charm and talk Rhys into doing anything.

Rhys traced his fingers over the back of his golden hand. It was better to think of Jack like that, because that was what made sense to Rhys. The Jack he knew from Eris, who had been so sweet and gentle, who’d wanted to spoil Rhys just because Rhys had been upset, that wasn’t the same man.

But Rhys couldn’t stop thinking about it. How could Jack have forgotten him so easily? If Rhys had reminded him of what they’d had, would Jack have treated him any differently? If he’d said something, would Jack still have lead him into his office? Rhys couldn’t think of any answer that would’ve made him happy.

_I’m really glad I met you, Rhys._

It was a stupid thing to get hung-up over.

And yet, here he was, sitting beside the man’s double, a prostitute Rhys had hired more than once to play out his desperate little fantasies. _Rhys_ was stupid. He finished his drink.

“Whoa, slow down, Atlas. We’ve got the whole night ahead of us,” Tim said.

The whole night, huh? That chased some of the melancholy away. Rhys set his drink down with an exaggerated smack of his lips.

“What about you?” Rhys asked. “What do you like most in bed?”

“I like making my partners happy,” Tim said with a smarmy grin.

Rhys snorted. “Yeah, right. What do you _really_ like, though?”

“That is what I really like. Guess I’m in the right business, huh?” Tim’s smile widened. Rhys had the sudden urge, no doubt fuelled by the glass of wine he’d just unwisely dumped down his throat, to wipe that look off of Tim’s face. Do something drastic.

But it was neither the time nor the place for it, Rhys reminded himself.

“You’re gonna tell me what you really like,” Rhys said, waving an accusing finger in his direction.

Tim leaned away from its drunken trajectory. “Am I?”

“Yep. I get answers from people.” Rhys shook his head. There was a better way of phrasing that. “I get what I _want_ from people.” That was it, there you go.

Tim looked sceptical and amused. “Uh huh.”

“Do you like… rough stuff? Getting your hair pulled? _Are_ you a cockslut?” Rhys guessed while Tim reached for the food.

“Only when I’m paid to be,” Tim said.

“Do you like being tied up? Getting your hair _petted_? Do you like to be called pretty? Do you like to be called a bitch? A pretty bitch? Do you like being ridden? Or do you like to ride?”

“The answer to all of those questions and more,” Tim said, holding a stripped skewer like a baton, “is: I like whatever I’m getting paid to do.”

Rhys frowned, but he wouldn’t be so easily stymied. “Alright then,” he said, easing to a new conversational tactic like a fencer changing hands. “What do you like best: being paid to be dominant, or being paid to be submissive?”

“Depends on the client,” Tim replied. An expert feint.

“What do you get asked to do the most?” Rhys asked.

Tim chewed on another piece of meat (thematically appropriate, in Rhys’ opinion) before he responded. “Mostly? People like it when I’m submissive. I don’t know if it’s the face, or what.”

“You think it could be the face?” Rhys asked.

Tim tapped his chin with the stripped wooden stick. “Lots of people gotta grudge against Handsome Jack.”

Rhys stared at Tim, the implications of his words struggling their way through an alcohol fuzz. “That sounds… dangerous,” he said.

“Relax.” Tim tapped Rhys’ nose with the same greasy skewer. “If I get a sense my customer’s got a hateboner, I get out of there pretty quick. I only deal with customers who respect my rules and boundaries. Remember that speech I gave you at the start?” Tim asked. Rhys nodded. “Well, a few people do find out what happens when they try to push something I don’t want.”

“What happens?” Rhys asked.

“I shoot ‘em.” Tim picked up a cheese pastry.

Rhys paled. “You kill them?”

“Not always,” Tim said, spitting pastry flakes. “Sometimes they just get it in the leg. Sometimes worse. One time I shot a guy in the junk. It’s not always that dangerous, but Pandorans will be Pandorans.”

Rhys picked up a handful of berries while he thought over Tim’s response. He knew sex work could be dangerous but he’d never thought about how bad it could be for someone with Handsome Jack’s face. _Rhys_ had always been respectful. Everyone he knew had been, too.

He thought about Tim the way that asshole from before had described him. Bruised up, on his knees. Seemingly helpless.

“Why do you do it?” Rhys asked while Tim bit into a mini-quiche.

“What? Have sex for money?” he asked through a mouthful of pastry, cheese and eggs. Rhys nodded. “Don’t tell me you’re one of _those_ Johns. The whole ‘what’s a pretty thing like you doing in an industry like this?’ attitude. The saviour complex. You know.” Tim tilted his head to the side and raised his eye brows at Rhys. “You can’t actually save me from something I’m not trying to run from.”

“I’m not looking to save you from anything,” Rhys said, frowning. “I was just curious. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

Tim drummed his fingers along the length of the bottle. He looked out straight ahead, where the ocean had almost vanished behind the veil of night. Elpis’ light was obnoxious enough to bring shape to the waves forming and falling far from shore. They looked like black stone hills, carved from the shifting landscape. Drunk as he was, Rhys could find the movement almost hypnotic.

“Things got pretty chaotic after Handsome Jack died,” Tim said, drawing Rhys’ attention.

“I remember,” Rhys said.

A lot of people, including Rhys, made the mistake of thinking of Hyperion as a pyramid. That he and all the other employees lived at the bottom, and the man in charge lived at the top. After Jack died—the first time, anyway—Rhys had to re-evaluate. Because when he was gone, everyone felt it. It was as if they’d lost the base, lost their stability.

“I left Helios not long after he opened the vault. Ha—his second vault,” Tim said. “I fled to Pandora because I didn’t know where else to go.”

“You couldn’t go home?” Rhys asked, subjecting him to the drunkard’s squint.

“I wasn’t welcome,” Tim said and took a drink directly from the bottle.

“Me neither,” Rhys said, grinning without guile. “Not to my home, and probably not to yours.”

“Ha. I had some money, but not a lot,” Tim continued.

“That’s surprising,” Rhys interrupted, resuming his squint. “I would’ve thought a body double for the CEO would’ve gotten decently paid.” Tim scowled. “I mean, you were risking your life on a daily basis, so…”

“Yeah, well. I _was_ decently paid, for all the fucking good it did me. Apparently, Jack and his team of bloodsuckers had written a bunch of addendums to the novel they called my contract, stipulating that my identity was his, to be dissolved upon his death. And because my identity was his identity, all of my accounts were in his name, which meant they were all frozen after he died.” He took another, too fast swig. The wine bubbled up the glass neck, some spilling over his chin.

Rhys stared, even after Tim wiped it off.

“You signed that contract?” he asked, pulling his gaze away.

“Of course not. I didn’t have to. He signed it for me, because that counted.” He rubbed at his face. “I was fucked up on painkillers at the time, anyway. I probably couldn’t have spelled my name if I wanted to,” he muttered.

“Pain killers?” Rhys repeated, his brows drawing together.

Tim shook his head. “Ah, that’s another story. So. I left Helios with not much money to my name. My actual name. Not enough to get me off-world, and definitely not enough to reverse the surgery. I picked up some odd jobs here and there, but everything on Pandora seemed to require a gun and I was getting sick of guns. I wanted to do something that didn’t involve bloodshed.” He pushed his hand through his hair. “I reached out to Moxxi, asked her if she had anything for me at her bar. She suggested another way I could make money.”

“You decided to start selling your body,” Rhys finished.

Tim’s nose wrinkled. “Everyone sells their bodies, Rhys. That’s what a job is. No, I started selling sex. Turns out there was more money in that, anyway.”

“Do you like doing it?” Rhys asked.

Tim gave the bottle a twirl, sloshing the wine against the sides. “I like it better than killing people,” he said.

* * *

It was Rhys’ turn to go hunting. The reception had begun to wind down, but there were still trays of half-eaten nibbles to pillage, if one knew where to look. More importantly, there was still wine. Especially if one knew enough to slip one of the servers a bit of money, and asked them to hunt down whatever was left over.

Rhys carried his haul back up to their secret spot on the roof. It took him a little while, partially because he had a lot of food and drink in his arms, and partially because he was completely sauced.

“Oh, look, there’s Rhys! Hi, Rhys!” Tim raised an empty bottle in greeting.

He wasn’t alone anymore. Athena was on the ground beside him, sitting close enough that he could lean his head against her shoulder.

Rhys’ grin went down a few notches when Athena turned her face towards him. She still made him very nervous.

“Rhys,” she said, her voice slipping a little over the sibilant. “It is Rhys.” She squinted at him. “You were telling the truth, Tim.”

“Is that more food? And wine! Good man.” Tim patted the space at his other side. Empty trays littered the ground around their feet, and Rhys had to tread carefully lest he slip on a silver gilt service set.

“l was just asking Athena how you two knew each other,” Tim said, as Rhys picked his way close.

“I was just telling him how we knew each other. Know each other.” She wiped down her mouth, looking embarrassed. “I have,” she announced very seriously, “been drinking.”

“Good,” Tim said, patting her hand.

“Congratulations again, Athena,” Rhys said as he began pulling another cork free. “It was a beautiful wedding.”

Athena nodded, strands falling loose from her styled hair. “It was. It was beautiful. Janey did a lot of the work but I tried to help. Janey is beautiful. I have a beautiful wife.”

“You do,” Tim agreed, holding out a glass towards Rhys.

Athena sighed. “I wished you could’ve been up there with me, Tim. Instead of Aurelia. She’s fine, but she’s not…”

Tim passed her the now full glass. “I know,” he said.

“I would have liked having my friends beside me at my wedding.” She leaned over Tim, pulling Rhys’ attention with a severe frown. “I asked this guy to be my best man, you know. I don’t really have a lot of people in my life. He’s one of them. But he turned me down.”

“Don’t make it sound like that,” Tim said, frowning. “I would’ve loved to be up there with you. It just… wasn’t a good idea.”

“I think it was,” Athena said, turning her glare onto him. From here, Rhys could smell her perfume. A scent like vanilla and salt water.

“You were just afraid to stand in front of people with your face out. This guy pretends to be Handsome Jack so people can fuck him for money, but he can’t even pretend to be himself long enough for a friend’s wedding.”

Tim sniffed and rubbed his neck. He let his head fall back against the wall.

Rhys looked down at the trays he’d just set down. It would take an awful lot to pierce the fog of his inebriation, but this did it.

“I wanted to do it,” Tim said.

Nothing in Athena’s face went soft, but she leaned back against the wall, giving them both space to breathe again.

“I know,” she said. She heaved another, much heavier sigh, as if she could dispel the tension that had built up between them with a gust of breath.

“I hate Handsome Jack,” she said.

“Me too,” Tim said through a yawn. “But he is my meal ticket, for better or worse.”

“Why would he freeze your accounts?” Rhys asked. He’d been thinking it over since Tim had told him. They both turned to look at him. “I mean, what does he gain from stealing money from you? He’s dead. And it’s not like he had any descendants.”

“Because he’s an asshole,” Athena said.

“Probably because he didn’t want me trying to take his place.” Tim snorted. “Like I could. Or wanted to. He never understood that. He figured everyone thought the same way he thought. Especially me.” Tim thumped his head against the wall. “Joke’s on him. I just wanted to leave.”

“And he’s an asshole,” Athena repeated, sloshing wine over her hand.

“That too.”

She downed the last of her drink and patted him on the knee. “I should go. Janey’ll want to see me. Because she loves me, and likes it when I’m around.”

Tim gave her a smile. “I like it when you’re around, too.”

“Me too.” She stood, wobbling a little on her short heels. “Come around more often. We can enjoy each other’s company. Good bye, Rhys. Thank you for stealing my wine.”

“Congratulations again. I can already tell you and Janey will make each other happy,” Rhys said warmly, saluting her with an empty bottle.

Tim rubbed his face again as she walked away, his fingers catching on the line of his scar. Rhys had stopped looking, but the action brought his attention back to it.

It was like a crater in his face, so deep and red. Like the punctured crust giving way to the molten core of a planet. Except on his face.

“Does your scar hurt?” Rhys asked.

Tim dropped his hand. “Not today.”

“I always wondered what was under the mask.”

Tim pulled a tray closer. Rhys’ head felt heavy. His eyelids felt heavy. Holding both up was starting to take more energy than he maybe had in his scrawny body. Tim set a new tray between them, much to Rhys’ relief.

“Did Jack have that under there too?” Rhys asked.

“Yep.” Tim popped a luke-warm quiche into his mouth.

“How did it happen?”

“Your boy opened a vault on the moon. Then Lilith punched him in the face through an Eridian artefact,” Tim replied, spraying crumbs.

“I meant with you,” Rhys said.

Tim’s chewing slowed. He looked down at his lap.

Rhys picked at the food. He wished he’d found some dessert, but unsurprisingly the sweets had gone quickly. He picked up a bunch of green berries, but those were no one’s idea of a chocolate substitute.

“I asked him to,” Tim said at last.

Rhys’ head snapped up. He regretted it immediately, as it set the blood and alcohol sloshing around his body up his neck and into his brain. He blinked hard and made himself focus on Tim’s words.

“Jack was going to do it to me anyway,” Tim said, staring at his hands. “I figured if I came to him, told him I’d do it willingly, I could at least control the method. I told him I wanted a doctor to do it, and that I wanted to be put under for the procedure. He agreed to both, which surprised me. He even delivered on both, which surprised me more.” Tim pulled his legs up, folding his arms over his knees. “I’d for sure figured he would at least try to keep me awake,” he muttered.

Rhys stared at his profile, his eyes tracing the line of his scar. “Looks painful,” he said.

“It wasn’t fun.”

“You didn’t wear the mask today. Do you normally not wear the mask?”

“I wear it when I’m working. Don’t worry, stretch,” Tim said, catching Rhys’ eye with a grin. With the grin. “Next time you see this pretty face, you won’t be subjected to the freak-show underneath.”

“What if I want to see you when you’re not working?” Rhys asked.

That famous grin faded. “Why would you want to do that?”

Rhys was very drunk. He felt as if he’d used sparkling wine as a blood transfusion after hitting his head. The ground felt good and stable, and so did the wall at his back, but they were the only things that did.

Tim looked solid enough, too. Rhys squinted at him, trying to pull him into focus.

Tim laughed softly. “Boy. You’re pretty hammered, huh?”

Rhys leaned forward and kissed Tim.

* * *

Yes yes yes yes. It was the only thing Rhys could think of when he felt Tim’s lips move under his, a litany of confirmation, reassurance, that he was doing the exact right thing. Yes yes yes, this was exactly what he needed to do. This is what he should have done an hour ago, when he a little more sober, and maybe he could’ve enjoyed it more.

Although he enjoyed it quite a bit right now. He pushed his hand through Tim’s hair, like he’d done many times before. It felt softer than usual, and Rhys relished the feeling of his hair between his fingers. He scooted closer, knocking a tray aside, and threw one leg clumsily around Tim’s.

Tim laughed, breathless and sweet into Rhys’ mouth. Rhys smiled. He slipped his hand down the back of Tim’s neck, sliding it under his open collar. He used his other hand to start loosening his tie.

“Shit.” Tim broke away. “Shit. Shit. Rhys.”

Rhys hummed to let Tim know that he was listening and that his words were important and valued. He buried his face into his neck, dragged his wet lips across his pulse.

“Rhys. We can’t.”

“Sure we can,” Rhys mumbled into his throat. “Look at us go.”

Tim laughed, and Rhys could feel it everywhere. The vibration in his throat, the way it shook his chest.

“Rhys. Rhys, come on.” He wrapped his arms around Rhys’ shoulders. “This isn’t a good idea.” He tipped his head back. Rhys pulled his tie loose.

Rhys pulled back, grinning without a lick of shame as he began to unbutton Tim’s shirt. “Sure it is. It’s a great idea. The best idea I’ve ever had.”

Tim laughed again as Rhys pulled his shirt open. Rhys leaned back on his heels to examine what he had to work with. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen Tim’s chest, of course, but that didn’t mean he didn’t always enjoy the view. He ran his hand down his chest, a feeling of déjà vu fluttering amidst the alcohol buzzing in his head.

“I have a better idea,” Tim said, catching Rhys’ hand. “We find someplace private.” He guided their joined hands down his stomach. Rhys’ fingers flexed in the trail of dark hair leading down from his navel. “Maybe someplace indoors, with a door we can lock from the inside.” He slipped Rhys’ hand over his crotch.

Rhys was practically salivating. He didn’t trust himself to speak. He only nodded. Tim was clearly much smarter than him.

[ ](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/387002080235094017/387002147692085258/Exulansis-DrunkKiss.jpg)

* * *

The next few hours were fuzzy. Rhys remembered making out. He remembered stumbling back down to the venue, asking someone for the closest hotel or motel or hostel or any place with a bed.

He could remember the hotel check-in, paying with a platinum card for the finest available room. He could remember the elevator ride, remember Tim crowding him against the wall, the heat of his body against Rhys’, his big hands pulling at Rhys’ clothes, his jacket, shirt tails, trying to find skin. And Rhys, laughing, so happy to just let him search.

Fumbling with the door, Tim at his back, arms around his waist, lips and teeth at his neck. Tim breathing his name, like… like it was special. Like it really meant something to him.

And then they were inside, peeling their clothes off of each other. It wasn’t their first time—far from it, as Rhys’ bank account would attest—but there was something new about it all. Something exciting in the feel of Tim’s hands on him.

Rhys could remember thinking, _finally, finally,_ like they’d been building up to this moment for years. Just for the chance to fall into bed together, giggling, giddy, desperate. Rhys wanted to put his mouth on every freckle he could find, and there were so many. All over his shoulders and arms, chest and back. Rhys had seen it before, Tim’s bare chest, the soft push of his stomach, the line of his hip bone, the proud and red tip of his erect dick… but somehow it felt like the first time.

Rhys could remember saying, “We should do this more often.” Before he descended.

Later still, he could remember hearing Tim quietly telling Rhys, “I would love to see you again.”

* * *

Rhys woke up the next morning with a sour taste in his mouth, a dry throat, stinging eyes, a pounding headache and a full bladder. He wanted very badly to lie in bed and sleep the first four problems away, but the fifth demanded action. He grumbled a little as he slipped from under the comforter, put his feet on the too-cold floor, and made his way to the washroom.

He drank two glasses of water after taking care of himself, and splashed more onto his face. He caught one look at his reflection in the mirror and winced. Drunk was a fine look on Rhys—it brought a boyish pink tinge to his cheeks, made his eyes bright, and made him very pleasant and charming company—but the morning after wasn’t a good look on anybody.

Rhys looked like a rough night. He felt… sore. He sipped his water and looked down at his soft chest. He saw round, red bruises. The size of someone’s mouth.

Rhys’ stomach dropped, and everything came rushing back.

Goddammit. Tim.

Meeting Tim at the wedding and then drinking. Dear god, they drank. They must’ve put three bottles of wine away, each. No wonder Rhys felt terrible. He hadn’t gone drinking like that since he was in university.

No. Focus. You’re in trouble, Rhys.

Rhys finished the last of his water, set the glass down silently, took a breath, and stared the bathroom door.

He didn’t want to open the door. He would’ve traded his entire empire to be spared from opening that door. Fear pounded inside his chest in time with his heart. Because if he really had gone and done what he remembered doing, then…

Then it was all over. He’d destroyed this relationship. How could he hire Tim after this?

Did he even want to?

It might not be so bad, he told himself. Maybe he remembered wrong.

As if in response, his entire body gave a throb, a sore reminder.

The worst part was that Tim had been good. He’d been better than good; he’d been kind. Sweet. He’d whispered things into Rhys’ ear that had made Rhys moan. Made his toes curl. Even when he left his bruises on Rhys, he’d been sweet.

“ _You’re so good, Rhys. I’m so lucky… so happy… you have no idea…”_

The worst part was how much Rhys had needed to hear it. The worst part was how badly Rhys wanted to forget.

No. The worst part, the actual worst part, was the sense of deja vu it’d given him. Rhys didn’t need to be reminded of that goddamn night four years ago. The night he fell a little bit in love with a man who only tried to kill him the next time they met.

Rhys stared at the door.

Maybe Tim had left already. That would be… good. Wouldn’t it? They could pretend it didn’t happen. That it meant nothing. A freebie. Maybe they could joke about it. Or just ignore it. Then Rhys wouldn’t have ruined this thing between them.

There was no point in waiting. Rhys sucked in another breath, held it, and let it out slowly. He turned the knob as silently as he could, and pushed the door open.

Tim was still in his bed.

He was curled away from Rhys, his head just visible above the froth of the hotel sheets and comforter. Rhys could hear him breathing, loud enough to almost be a snore. It might’ve been endearing. Rhys stared.

Rhys could see the future, see the branching path ahead. Just as he’d seen inside Jack’s office, almost a year ago.

He could leave now. Gather his clothes, get dressed in the hall, put the ‘do not disturb’ sign on the door, and leave. The room had been paid for. Tim would be allowed to sleep in a nice place for a while.

And then they could pretend nothing happened. Press reset and continue on as they had been before. Rhys was good at that.

Or…

Rhys could go back to bed. He could wake up with Tim. Maybe they could have breakfast. Maybe they could try to talk about what happened. Maybe they could go back to bed, after. Spend the day in their room, just enjoying each other’s company.

Rhys’ throat tightened. He looked down at his feet.

He felt the memory of a different night, rolling through his mind like a fog. An old pain whose thorns were in him deep, an ache he could still feel to his very core. He couldn’t do it again. He couldn’t bear to live through it a second time.

Out in the hall, he closed the door with a nearly silent click. He got dressed quickly, before anyone could see him. He hung the ‘do not disturb’ sign on the knob.

He smoothed down his wrinkled lapels as best he could, straightened his spine, and began his walk of shame. Right down to the lobby below, and right out the door, into the morning sunlight.


	4. Nodus Tollens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **nodus tollens**  
>  _n._ the realization that the plot of your life doesn’t make sense to you anymore—that although you thought you were following the arc of the story, you keep finding yourself immersed in passages you don’t understand, that don’t even seem to belong in the same genre—which requires you to go back and reread the chapters you had originally skimmed to get to the good parts, only to learn that all along you were supposed to choose your own adventure. - _[The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows](http://www.dictionaryofobscuresorrows.com/post/48395591256/nodus-tollens)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lovely and amazing artwork in this chapter provided by [crystalcaravanner.tumblr.com](http://crystalcaravanner.tumblr.com)!! Go check 'em out!

“There he is! The golden boy of Pandora! The man who brought Atlas back from the dead!”

Rhys forced a smile as Professors James and Ana Cheung descended upon him with open arms and bright smiles. He could never remember what their official titles were, as they both held complicated, important and ultimately boring jobs at Maliwan. Normally, Rhys would have it all in his head; his ECHOeye spitting out the information he needed, but he wasn’t in the mood to activate it for these two. The Cheungs were pleasant company, but they were pretty inconsequential.

“Nice to see you both,” he greeted with a practised, friendly smile.

Rhys sipped his sparkling wine while James Cheung filled the air with his usual talk of elemental effects, splash damage, virtual testing vs field testing, and the benefits therein. Rhys paid him a polite amount of attention, while his mind wandered.

It was hard to believe they were still on Pandora. The restaurant Maliwan had rented out for the occasion was filled with people whose names Rhys could never remember on his own. Officials from all the major corporations, all of them invited to celebrate the recent windfall on Pandora.

When the big fish went belly up, it left behind trillions of dollars worth of equipment, mining sites, laboratories, refineries, factories, and so much more. The felled satellite alone had enough technology for the opportunistic scavenger to make a few thousand, and there was no one more opportunistic than the scavengers dressed in their finest evening wear in the restaurant tonight.

No one wanted to say it out loud, but the implication was behind every interaction: this was a celebration of Hyperion’s demise.

It bothered Rhys a little, for reasons he could never pin down.

Everyone knew who he was, and everyone knew where he’d come from. He made his name through Atlas, but his roots were in Hyperion. They were all happy to see Hyperion dead in the ground. Not one of them there knew what it was like to watch it fall apart from the inside. Rhys sipped his wine.

He made his rounds and finished his glass. He met with a few familiar faces from Torgue, Tediore, and even Dahl. He schmoozed his way through every interaction, charmed every person he spoke to, left them all chuckling with dry mirth when he left them.

A lot of Maliwan’s people called him into their circles, which was no surprise. Maliwan and Atlas ran in similar roads, sold to the same kind of customer.

Four months ago, these same people were content to push Rhys off to the side and let him dine on scraps at the kiddie table. Now, after word of Atlas’ upcoming Skyholder range with its elemental shuffle ability had been so very carefully leaked, they were pulling out every stop. They had even begun to drop hints of a possible merger in Rhys’ ear.

He smiled every time it came up, drank a little more wine, and expertly changed the subject. He’d have them all at his feet one day.

It was during some dull conversation with people whose names Rhys had already forgotten that he first heard the susurration, a flutter of voices from across the room, coming over him like a wave.

“ _Can you believe… The nerve… I’ve heard of him… sells himself… actually advertises as being just like him… probably popular… still, isn’t it a little tacky?”_

Rhys’ stomach clenched, a premonition stealing over him. Seeing over a crowd was a little easier when you were Rhys’ height. If he wanted to see the cause of the commotion, all he had to do was crane his neck.

He saw Tim.

Tim, with his mask, dressed in a black suit with a red tie, on the arm of some short, skinny businessman Rhys vaguely recognized. He might’ve been able to put a name to the face if he could be bothered to look any closer. If he could take his eyes off of Tim.

“Well.” The woman standing beside Rhys—Mahara?—sighed. “I suppose if anyone was going to do it, it would be Basil.”

“It seems a little tasteless, doesn’t it?” a woman whose name was possibly Heather asked.

Probably Mahara snorted. “Basil doesn’t care about taste. He likes to make an impression.”

Basil. Did he know a Basil? Rhys mentally ran through his personal rolodex, but not a single ‘Basil’ came up. Why did he look familiar?

“I’ve heard him talk about his favourite prostitute before,” a man whose name was maybe Clinton said. “He did mention he had unique tastes. I guess now we know.”

“I’ve heard about the body double,” Possibly Heather said. “His rates are outrageous, but if you pay up, he’ll do whatever.”

Rhys’ mouth went dry. He knew he had to stop staring, but it was a struggle. Tim invited stares the way honey invited flies.

“That could be fun,” Mahara said drily. “Do you think he lets people just punch him? Just once?”

“How much would you pay to punch Handsome Jack in the face?” Maybe Clinton asked.

Rhys tried to make himself smile while the others laughed, but his natural charm had slipped. He downed a gulp of wine, finishing the glass.

“Oh, Rhys,” Probably Mahara said, suddenly filled with sympathy. “You used to work for him, didn’t you? It must be difficult for you.”

“It’s fine,” he said automatically. “I already knew about the double.” Probably Mahara raised one of her sculpted brows. Possibly Heather buried a smile behind her hand. Rhys coloured. “I mean, word travels fast between us Hyperion survivors. We, uh. We all knew about him.”

“Of course,” Probably Mahara said drily.

Rhys waited an acceptable amount of time for the conversation to shift before he excused himself. He made for the other side of the room, his eyes locked on the bar. He had intended only to drink one or maybe two glasses of sparkling, but suddenly he felt thirsty for something stronger.

A peal of laughter broke out on the opposite side of the room, and Rhys could hear Tim’s voice carrying over the crowd, boisterous, obnoxious, and perfectly in character. While the bartender mixed his Sugar Lips, Rhys did some mental figuring.

He couldn’t leave immediately, that much was obvious. If he left at the first sight of a Handsome Jack double, everyone would figure him for a traumatized victim. That Rhys was both of those things wasn’t anyone’s business but his own.

Rhys tipped the woman, picked up his frosted martini glass, and took a long drink.

The alcohol would buy him some time, loosen some knots inside of his chest. He could hold out for another hour, maybe. Long enough to see the CEO of Maliwan make their usual boring speech about future partnerships, building bridges, helping people through commerce, blah blah blah. He could easily avoid this Basil. It didn’t have to be terrible.

_How much would you pay to punch Handsome Jack in the face?_

Rhys drank another mouthful, his stomach giving a weak somersault in response. He wiped his mouth with the back of his shaking hand and breathed out hard through his nose. The finger foods were rich, but they weren’t substantial. He could feel the alcohol already hitting every synapse, lighting up behind his eyes.

He turned in his seat and cast a look out to the crowd. He spotted Tim easily, surrounded as he was by people. He was still on Basil’s arm, still with a smarmy look stuck to his face, as much a mask as the white thing he had latched over his scar.

Everyone was smiling, but there was something unsettling in the way they looked at him. Too many teeth in the smiles they aimed at Tim’s face.

As Rhys watched, two of his ‘admirers’ began speaking to each other behind their hands, as if Tim weren’t even there. They snickered. Tim’s expression never flickered.

What did they see when they looked at him? What sort of person did they assume they were speaking to?

Someone punched Tim in the shoulder. Rhys took another drink.

It wasn’t fair. Tim wasn’t like Jack. Why would Basil bring him out to this party? Didn’t he understand what he was doing? Bringing Handsome Jack’s doppelganger to this party was like bringing a lamb to a den of wolves.

Rhys turned away. That wasn’t true, he told himself. Tim wasn’t a lamb. He was armed. He was a former vault hunter. He could take care of himself.

Another burst of laughter from the other side of the room. When Rhys looked over, he saw that a woman had started to tug on Tim’s tie, pulling it too hard. Tim tipped his head back, baring his throat. Smiling, always smiling.

Rhys ordered another drink.

* * *

Rhys held on for another hour. He even managed to avoid Basil and Tim, although there were a few close calls.

Rhys made the mistake of feeling optimistic. It hadn’t been a good night, but at least he had avoided catastrophe. Surely the head of Maliwan would make her boring speech soon and he could make a quiet exit. Claim he had a headache or something.

Rhys had polished off his second Sugar Lips and was considering a third when it happened. He was teetering on his heels, trying to keep up in a conversation with representatives from Maliwan and Dahl, when Basil entered their little circle, with his arm candy in tow.

“Basil! So good to see you!” a woman named Golden enthused. “And…. My. Is that _the_ Handsome Jack with you?”

Rhys closed his mouth tight. All the alcohol in his system made the sort of threats that he feared would end up spewing all over Golden’s sparkling shoes.

“Sure is,” Basil said smoothly. He was a soft-looking fellow. Slick black hair, shiny shoes, black suit, and a round face. He dressed well. He might’ve been handsome, Rhys supposed, although he struggled to think of him in such a light. “Say hello, Jackie.”

Rhys wouldn’t bring his eyes up for all the eridium in Pandora. He felt rooted to the spot. He gripped the stem of his glass tight.

“That sounds like an opening for a bad comedy bit,” Tim said. “This guy can’t stop bossin’ me around. How ‘bout I just say ‘hi’?”

“You’ll have to excuse him,” Basil said. “His manners aren’t much. But then, that’s what happens when you let some blood-thirsty psycho run a company. That’s fine, sweetheart,” Basil said magnanimously, smug and so very punchable.

Everyone introduced themselves. Rhys stared at Tim’s polished shoes and wondered if it would be too rude to run. He was drunk enough to very seriously consider it.

“And Rhys, of course.” Golden clutched his arm, bringing him back to the present. “You must know him. He used to work for you. Right, Rhys? Weren’t you at Hyperion?”

Rhys looked up. Tim met his eyes.

“Nope,” Tim said, popping the ‘p’. “Never saw this guy before.” He turned away.

After the longest five minutes in the universe, while everyone else made small talk, Rhys managed to slip away.

His head swam and his vision doubled. He managed to put his glass down on… something. A table, probably. He found the buffet, grabbed the closest tray, and walked past the employees only door, past the bustling kitchen, and out into the alley.

Rhys sat on the stoop, picked at fried cheese puff pastries and stared up at the sky. Elpis hung like a threat, low and heavy in the colourful night sky.

The little appetizers were good, but they didn’t feel like enough. Rhys watched what little of the sky he could see above and tried to count the stars. Attempted to keep his unruly thoughts in check. Thinking about Tim would do him no good.

They hadn’t talked, not since the night Rhys had taken Tim to bed. Or vice versa.

The more distance he put between himself and that night, the more memories surfaced from the depths of his mind. He could remember the things Tim had whispered in his ear. The little endearments, the praise, and every wonderful, awful thing that made Rhys feel like his heart was about to spill out of his chest. How he’d made him feel like a vessel overfull, and even the slightest movement could get him to tip.

Tim had dug his fingers into his hips. He’d taken Rhys’ hand, twined their fingers together and pinned him to the bed, his breath like fire against Rhys’ neck. His name falling from his mouth over and over, soft and increasingly desperate.

_“Rhys… Rhys… What’ve you done to me…?”_

Rhys had thrown his head back, let his mouth fall open, and groaned out Tim’s name in response.

Tim had frozen at the sound of it. Rhys remembered that, now. Tim had stopped, causing Rhys to whimper with needy impatience. Tim had stared at his face with his eyes wide and his expression painfully bare. Like Rhys had just said something wonderful.

And then he’d taken Rhys’ face in both hands and kissed him soundly, thoroughly. Rhys had moaned, laughing a little into his open mouth. Thrown his arms around Tim’s shoulders and held him tight as he started rocking his hips again, finally, yes yes yes, please, god, again.

A lover’s embrace, like in the movies.

Enough, Rhys told himself. He licked melted cheese and grease from his thumb. There was no point in pulling up all that old stuff from the dirt. Rhys had made his choice. He’d walked out. He hadn’t heard from Tim since.

He didn’t get to feel hurt at the way Tim looked through him, now. He had no rights to the ache in his chest.

Rhys picked up another puff of warm cheese and fried pastry. It was good, but still not enough. Rhys couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d forgotten something, or that something was missing.

He jumped at the sound of a metal shriek, as a door opened on its hinges. He froze, afraid that someone had come looking for him.

Rhys realized a moment later that the door he’d heard opening was the not the one behind him. He relaxed and swallowed his mouthful. He looked around, but he couldn’t see another door, or anyone who might’ve come out of it. When he heard voices at last, it sounded as if they were coming from around the corner, at the back of the building.

“…out here for?”

Rhys nearly choked. He knew that voice.

“Just thought you could use some air. It must be hard in there for you, Jack.”

A snort. “That’s real sweet, but you don’t have to worry about me, Baz. I’m titanium, remember?”

A quiet laugh. “Of course. Of course I remember.”

“Y’know, I’m thinkin’ you aren’t so worried about me. Maybe you’re just after a little alone time.” Tim’s voice dropped to a familiar octave, one that could still make the small hairs on the back of Rhys’ neck stand up.

He heard Basil laughing, the sound like nails on a chalkboard. He struggled with the overpowering and irrational urge to march over there and punch him in his smug face.

Stupid. Rhys gripped the stairs. It wasn’t as if anyone had done anything wrong. He stared at the half-finished tray of food without much interest.

Tim said something else, but it was too low for Rhys to make out. He knew he should go back inside. He shouldn’t be out here, listening to this. It didn’t miss his attention that he was spying on an intimate rendezvous of Tim’s for the second time since they’d met, although he didn’t find it funny.

You don’t get to be upset, he told himself firmly. You don’t get to be sad. You wanted this. You wanted to pretend it didn’t happen. Mission accomplished!

Rhys let out a silent breath. He reached for the tray, his legs unbending, when he heard footsteps. Several of them. He threw a panicked look at the mouth of the alley, but there was no one there.

“Uh, what the hell?” Tim sounded annoyed. “Hey, fellas? We’re kinda in the middle of something here.”

“Oh, don’t worry about them. I thought they could join us,” Basil said breezily.

“Uh. Hang on.” Tim’s voice returned to its normal cadence, dropping the impression like it burned him. “I didn’t agree to a group scene. You can’t just spring this shit on me, Basil. We’ve talked about this.”

“Yes, we do a lot of talking. Don’t we, Jack?”

Rhys heard a scuffle, a sound of dress shoes being dragged across the ground, muffled curses. The unmistakable sound of violence, of someone’s fist hitting someone soft.

“You do a lot of talking. Make a lot of rules. Like at the wedding, before. I’m tired of your shit, Jack. Tired of you acting above your station. Be a good boy and stay still, will you?”

“Fuck you!”

Another strike, something hard slamming into something soft. Rhys flinched like he was the one who’d been hit.

He sat frozen to the spot, staring with wide eyes at the ground. The rush of adrenaline seemed to sweep away all thought. Rhys’ muscles locked up. He trembled, useless, where he sat.

He heard more pained grunts, more punching, more curses.

“Fucking…! Grab his leg, will you?”

“I’m trying!”

“Hold him, hold him!”

The scrape of a shoe dragged across a pebbled surface. Tim’s furious voice spat curses, threats, promises, until he was cut off with a suddenness that made Rhys gasp.

“What a mouth on him…”

Basil laughed, that same airy sound as earlier. “Well, what can you expect from the fearsome Handsome Jack? Are you ready to behave, _pumpkin_?”

A muffled curse was the only response.

“Good enough. You boys brought what I asked?” A pause. “Good. Hold him tight. Remember before, Jack? When I asked you to take your mask off for me and you just smiled and said it didn’t come off. I wasn’t really asking, Jack. I want to see.”

“Out here? Shouldn’t we take him to the safe house?”

“There’ll be plenty of time for that. Relax. No one’s going to come looking for him.”

A laugh, strangled and pained sounding. “Yeah, relax. I’ve always wanted to know what’s under that thing. C’mon, pretty boy. Let’s get that mask off. Let’s see that smile…”

No. No, Rhys couldn’t just sit there. His body trembled against him, but he forced himself to stand up. And after that, it was easy.

He walked as if in a daze as the sounds of a scuffle exploded yet again. He could hear Tim howling around what must’ve been a gag. He slipped his hand into his jacket, gripped the handle of his old friend tight.

* * *

Tim twisted desperately in the grip of two men, each one holding a separate arm. He’d half-pulled himself free of one, his arm pulled back at a painful angle for his trouble. His jacket was gone, his red tie pulled tight against his throat. His collar was bent and ripped.

There was an ugly gash down the length of his face, following the white edge of his mask. Blood poured from it, dyeing his neck and face red, spotting his ripped, white shirt.

Basil stood opposite, his back to Rhys. He’d backed away even as Rhys watched. With a knife in his hand.

Rhys felt empty. The rising tide of adrenaline really had washed away all of his higher brain functions, all the things that might’ve tried to speak to him in a voice of fear. He had nothing in his head except for the sound of his own blood, the beat of his own heart.

When Basil spoke, it seemed as if his voice came from a great distance. “You idiots! Hold him still!”

Rhys pressed his thumb down on the button. His shock stick extended. He gripped Basil by the shoulder with his metal hand and pressed the tip of the baton between his shoulder blades before Basil could even turn around.

Under normal circumstances, the charge that pulsed through the baton would send a body flying. Minimizing the damage. But Rhys had Basil in the grip of his naturally insulated cybernetic arm and Basil’s entire body flinched and twitched like a fish on the shore. Rhys let him go after what could only have been two seconds, but he hoped felt far longer. Basil dropped to the ground.

Rhys felt as if he were dreaming. When he looked up, he found everyone was staring at him. The faces of the attackers were blurry, indistinct.

For a breathless moment, all Rhys could see clearly was Tim’s blood-streaked face, his wide eyes. If this were a dream, the others would go up in smoke, and leave them to their reunion.

It wasn’t. One of the attackers reached for Rhys, grabbed his arm.

Rhys returned to life. He stumbled back, yanked his arm free, and brought the baton down on the attacker’s outstretched arm, and sent him flying back into the wall.

Someone grabbed Rhys from behind, hooked their arms under Rhys’. Rhys struggled, trying to squirm free of his jacket. With his arms pinioned, he couldn’t reach his attacker with the baton, although he tried. The man behind him cursed and twisted Rhys’ wrist. The baton fell with a clatter.

Rhys kicked at the person holding him, aiming his heeled boots at an unseen kneecap, but his attacker wouldn’t hold still and Rhys was left flailing. Fighting always looked so much cleaner in the movies.

Just as Rhys managed to pull one arm free of his jacket, his attacker vanished. Rhys stumbled forward, throwing his hand out to catch himself on the lip of a dumpster. He looked around to find the alley now littered with bodies, some groaning quietly. Some not.

Tim slammed a man—the same man who’d been attacking Rhys—into the wall. He fisted his hand in the man’s hair and brought his head down again and again, bludgeoning him against the restaurant’s clean exterior. After the third hit, the man stopped flailing. Tim threw him to the ground a moment later, panting hard.

Rhys was left staring at Tim’s heaving back. He had no way of knowing what Tim’s face might’ve looked like. He had some dark suspicions.

Tim wiped his face with his torn sleeve. His cuffs had ripped during the struggle. Someone had tugged his shirt out of his slacks, popped the seams at his right shoulder. Rhys could see blood on the back of his bowed neck, smeared by a stranger’s fingers.

Rhys watched Tim warily, like he was a wild dog that might turn on him. Snap his hand off if he made the wrong move. Rhys made no moves at all.

Finally, Tim’s hard breathing halted. His shoulders tensed, and then slumped. He pushed a hand through his hair, gave a hard sniff, and turned to face Rhys.

He’d lost his mask, somewhere in the scuffle. The white material, soft only as it touched skin, had been ripped clean off. Tattered remains hung from silver clasps, but Tim’s face was bare and that horrible scar was visible for all to see. Visible to Rhys.

Except Tim wouldn’t look at Rhys, not really. He looked at the ground to the left of Rhys’ feet and held out his baton.

“Thanks,” Tim said. His voice sounded destroyed, rough and weak. His collar sat askew. Rhys wanted to reach over and straighten it for him. He reached out and took his baton back instead.

“Of course,” Rhys whispered.

Tim turned away. He stalked over to his fallen jacket and snatched it from the ground. Rhys caught sight of his profile as Tim bent over, and wished he hadn’t.

Tim pulled his phone from an inner pocket and cursed when he saw the cracked screen. He punched a few commands into the damaged surface. Rhys heard it ringing and a moment later, Moxxi’s face appeared, in a twitching projection above the device. Her smile faded when she took in Tim’s face.

“Oh, _honey_ ,” she said. Her words came fuzzed with static.

“I need a ride,” Tim said.

“What happened?” she asked.

“What do you think?” he snarled. Moxxi’s sympathetic expression didn’t change. A muscle twitched on his brow. He clenched his teeth and breathed out hard.

“I’m terminating Basil Redder’s contract,” he said, voice hard and controlled. “I may possibly terminate Basil himself. I haven’t decided yet.”

Rhys stared down at the fallen man, the one responsible for this whole mess, and realised—finally—why he looked so familiar. It was the man from Athena and Janey’s wedding, the one who’d tried to proposition Tim in the middle of the celebration. The one who got aggressive when Tim refused. Why would Tim work for him again? After that display, Tim should’ve cut him off permanently. Anyone would’ve.

It occurred to Rhys that not only had he eavesdropped on two of Tim’s intimate rendezvous, but it’d been with the same person each time. It seemed a little funnier now.

Rhys zoned back in at the sound of Tim’s raised voice.

“...gotta be someone!” he said.

The cracked screen made Moxxi’s face flicker and twitch, freeze and glitch as she tried to speak. “Oh, sugar, I’m so sorry,” she said. “There’s just no one available to come get ya.”

Tim closed his eyes and ground his teeth. “What about Luca? Isn’t he—?”

Moxxi’s face froze, her expression stuck in a single frame of sugar sweet sympathy, even as her voice continued to emerge from her image. “He’s out on a job, Tim. They’re all occupied, officially on do not disturb.”

“Do you…” Rhys startled at the sound of his own voice. Tim’s spine stiffened. “Do you need a ride?” he asked.

“Who’s that?” Moxxi asked.

“No one,” Tim said.

Rhys ignored the cold needle those words stuck in his chest and stepped forward. “If you need a ride, I can help,” he said.

“Oh my goodness gracious,” Moxxi drawled. “Is that Rhys?”

Tim half-turned over his shoulder, keeping his gaze fixed on his phone. “You’ve done enough,” he snapped.

“Hi, Moxxi,” Rhys said, stepping closer still.

Tim’s shoulders straightened. The phone creaked quietly in his grip. He fixed Rhys with a one-eyed glare.

“Rhys. As I live and breathe,” Moxxi said, serving the southern belle charm with a ladle. “I had heard you did all right, but to see you looking like that. My, you look like a real gentleman. I thought that was your name I kept seeing on Tim’s ledger. Although it’s been a while. Hasn’t it?”

Tim looked away. Moxxi’s tone was sweet as pie, but Rhys wasn’t fooled. He cleared his throat.

“I can give Tim a ride,” he said.

“That’s not necessary,” Tim said without looking at him.

“I don’t mind,” Rhys said. “I was thinking about leaving anyway.”

“I saw how many drinks you were sucking back in there,” Tim said. “You really think it’s a good idea to get behind the wheel right now?”

Rhys’ eyes narrowed. How did Tim notice how much he was drinking? “Atlas cars are all outfitted with self-driving AI. I don’t even have to sit behind the wheel.”

“That sounds perfect,” Moxxi said.

“No, it doesn’t,” Tim argued. “It sounds dangerous. I don’t want some robot driving me across Pandora.”

“It’s fine,” Rhys said again. “I ride in it all the time.”

Tim barked a quick and bitter laugh. He shook his head. “Thanks but no thanks, Rhys.”

Even through the distortion, Rhys could tell Moxxi looked pissed. “Now, hold on just a minute—” she began. Tim cut her off and her image vanished.

“It’s really no trouble,” Rhys said, trotting after Tim as he began to stalk off into the night.

“I don’t need a ride,” Tim said.

Rhys laughed. “What? Like I didn’t just hear you begging Moxxi for someone to come and get you?” He reached out to grip Tim’s arm, but quickly thought better of it. “Come on. My car’s not far. I can just—”

Tim stopped. “What part of this aren’t you getting? I don’t want a ride, Rhys.”

Rhys felt flushed. It was almost a relief to feel angry. “Don’t lie to me. I just said that I heard—”

“I don’t want a ride with _you_ , Rhys.” Tim spat out the words like they hurt to say.

Rhys rocked back on his heels as if he’d been punched. Tim sneered at him, shook his head again, and stalked off.

Rhys stood there, under the overhead lamps. Pandoran insects shrieked and sang in the nearby bushes and tall grass just beyond the parking lot. He watched Tim march through halos of light, his head lowered and shoulders high, like he was bracing himself for another fight.

Rhys swallowed. He clenched his jaw.

“I probably deserved that,” Rhys said, once he’d caught up with Tim.

Tim sniffed and said nothing. He didn’t slow down.

“Look. You don’t have to like me, but that shouldn’t get in the way of taking a free ride, should it?” Rhys asked. “I mean, the closest Fast Travel is ten kilometers away. And your shoes aren’t exactly designed for walking. And it’s dark on the road. And it’s Pandora out there. You could get eaten by a thresher!”

Tim sniffed again and spat out a mouthful of blood. He wouldn’t look at Rhys.

Rhys huffed a sigh. Tim was fast, but his long legs made it easy to keep his stride. “Tim, please. Is it really worth being that stubborn about this? Is your pride really worth getting eaten by a giant alien worm monster? With spikes and teeth?”

Tim slowed down to a stop. He pressed his lips tight together, bowed his head, and sucked in a long breath. Rhys stopped beside him, just outside of arm’s reach, in case Tim decided to come out swinging.

But all Tim did was breathe out.

“Fine,” he said. “Where’s your stupid car?”

* * *

Except to give Rhys his home address, Tim didn’t talk at all during the ride to the Fast Travel station. A walk that would’ve taken two hours took only ten minutes in the sleek Atlas technical, but it still felt like an eternity to Rhys.

With the tide of adrenaline long gone, Rhys felt wrung out. The alcohol that’d served as a lovely and warm insulation from reality had faded away, leaving Rhys feeling hungry, cold, and…. Well. A lot of things.

It occurred to Rhys, as the car pulled into the Fast Travel Station, that he might’ve killed Basil. The shock baton might’ve stopped Basil’s heart cold in his chest. In the miasma of bad and inconvenient feelings Rhys had swirling in his mind, he found he was sorry for quite a lot of things. But he wasn’t sorry for that. He only hoped that if Basil had a family, they were the easily bought off types.

Tim lived in what used to be a Hyperion dam. A place now called New Shush. The amenities and living quarters of the former workers had all been converted into a make-shift city for the Pandoran settlers who’d crawled into the empty shell of a facility like hermit crabs with a hundred guns and bad hygiene.

They’d rigged up neon signs that buzzed above them. They built up second storeys on buildings that only had one, and third storeys on top of those. They rigged up generators to compliment the Hyperion-built stuff. They strung up walk-ways between buildings. Everything looked as if it’d been altered, improved upon, built over. Scrap metal and wood nailed and soldered onto sleek Hyperion bunkers.

A red neon sign hung higher, glowed brighter than all the rest. Moxxi’s. Or ‘Moxxxi’s’, according to the sign.

Rhys let his car de-digistruct in the Fast Travel station outside of the city. Tim looked at him for the first time as they both stepped out, glancing over his shoulder.

“Why’d you send your car away?” he demanded.

Rhys shrugged and tried to smile. “Thought I might walk you home?”

Tim looked like he might actually try to hit Rhys. Rhys held himself very still and tried to look as non-threatening as he possibly could, which he knew was _pretty_ non-threatening.

Finally, Tim just made a soft, dismissive noise and turned away. He stalked off again, that same tight shoulder, head bowed walk he’d used in the parking lot. Like he was afraid someone might try to stop him.

No one did. A few people out and about in the streets cast him a second look, but no one stared for long.

Tim’s cut had stopped bleeding, but not before it’d stained most of his face, neck, parts of his shoulder and chest red. Rhys stuck close to his heels, one hand gripping his baton, as Tim hurried through the crowds.

Rhys didn’t know what the people of New Shush were like. He didn’t think anyone was stupid or suicidal enough to start anything with Tim at that moment, but Rhys couldn’t help feeling cautious. Partially because he was a cautious person, although his friends might not believe it, and partially because… because something about the sight of Tim without his mask, with his shirt ripped and his face turning red and swollen with bruises, all of it made Rhys feel… protective.

That was a little frightening, truth be told. Rhys had a problem with letting people go. Even when he knew he should.

Tim made a beeline for Moxxi’s, which didn’t surprise Rhys at all. Tim didn’t slow down as they passed under the buzzing signs that bathed them both in red and pink light. He went through the front doors, past the tables, and marched straight for the glittering mirrored bar at the very back.

A few patrons did stop to stare. More than one person turned their head to watch Tim as he walked past. Rhys tightened his grip on the baton, and glared at anyone he could see through the haze of smoke and the dim, red lights.

Moxxi burst out from the back as soon as Tim made it to the bar. She was half-dressed in black and red lingerie, her usually expertly applied make-up had smeared a little around her lips. Almost everyone was looking now as the madam took Tim’s hand and hustled him into the back room. With Moxxi dressed in that outfit, Rhys supposed he couldn’t blame them. He stood awkwardly for a moment outside of the door marked for employees only, wondering if he should follow.

A moment later, the door opened again. Tim brushed past Rhys without looking at him, turned towards a sealed door beside the bar, pressed his hand against the security access, and—upon its green flash—walked inside. Rhys caught sight of a well-lit stairwell before the door snapped shut behind Tim.

Rhys stared at it, his hand still in his jacket.

“Rhys?” Moxxi. He turned to face her.

She was still wearing the lingerie, but she’d wrapped herself up in a cream-coloured robe. It didn’t do much for her decency, looking as if it’d been poured over her curves, except hint at the view everyone was missing out on. Rhys caught an eyeful of cleavage before he looked into her face.

“Come on back, honey,” she said, taking his arm and leading him away from the staring clientele. “Let’s get you something to drink.”

“What about your client?” Rhys asked as she pushed open the VIPs only door.

The VIP lounge was not dissimilar to the restaurant Rhys had just left, although it was much smaller. Instead of the velvet and red of the main bar, this place was decorated in rich mahogany and brass. Small votives flickered on the bar top at the back, providing a surprisingly intimate light.

“Don’t worry about her none,” Moxxi said as she walked around the back of the bar. “She knows I’ve got a few things to take care of out here. And this won’t take long. Sit down, Rhys.”

Rhys slid onto a bar stool. “Is Tim…?” He hesitated, unsure of what he really wanted to ask her.

Moxxi had gotten to work, her back to Rhys, as she pulled down small glass bottles from her cupboard.

“That boy brings more trouble to my doorstep than anyone else workin’ for me. I knew he would. Soon as he slumped into my bar looking for work that first time, I knew he was ten pounds of trouble in a five-pound bag.” She snapped the Boston shaker together.

“You took him on anyway,” Rhys said. Moxxi kissed her teeth and began to shake.

“I’ve seen a lot of people comin’ through my doors, Rhys. Lots of ‘em lookin’ like you used to. Shell-shocked. Haunted. Hollow. Whatever you want to call it. Sometimes, though, those who come to me are clearly comin’ to the end of something bad. Tim was like that. I could tell, soon as I looked at him. Well, I might not be the nicest gal in the galaxy, but I have a hard time turning someone away when they’ve come to the end of their rope.” She tilted her head to the side, as if conceding a point. “Also, I did try to kill him once. I figured I might’ve owed him one.”

Rhys’ eyes widened. Moxxi poured a measure of something shimmering and golden into two chilled coups. She topped it with a dash of bitters, wiped down the rim, and slid the drink over to Rhys.

Rhys stared at its surface, his mind still struggling to put together what Moxxi was telling him. He could imagine Tim, now, as she must’ve seen him then. Scarred and beaten. Covered in road dust, reeking of the hardships of Pandora. So sick of death, desperate for anything else. At the end of his rope.

It occurred to Rhys that perhaps another drink wasn’t really what he needed, even as he took the stem in one hand.

“I owe you one for helping Tim out,” she said.

The door behind her opened as a server with a tray stepped inside, sending a wave of chattering voices and soft music, a whiff of smoke, before it whispered shut again. The server placed what looked like a club sandwich in front of Rhys, along with a salad and a serving of fries. Rhys descended on it gratefully, chewing on a mouthful of fries before the door swung shut again.

Moxxi drank peacefully and watched him eat. “Do they not feed you at those stupid dog and pony shows?”

“Barely,” Rhys mumbled through bread and what he assumed was turkey. He chewed and swallowed quickly before speaking again. “That Basil guy… Why did Tim take that job? Didn’t he know… I mean, that party… It wasn’t a good place for someone like Tim to be. Didn’t he know that?”

Moxxi gave him a look he couldn’t decipher. “I don’t know, Rhys. I’ve got plenty of skills, but mind readin’ isn’t among ‘em. Personally, I advised him against taking this job. Not just because of the party, but because of Basil. I fancy myself to be a decent judge of character, y’know? And I could see what sort of character Basil Redder had. He gave me the creeps.”

Rhys felt like he wasn’t a terrible judge himself, and he’d come to a lot of the same conclusions as Moxxi. He noted her use of the past tense with a small, mean sense of satisfaction. The past tense was exactly where Basil belonged, and where he would stay.

“I’ll tell you something, Rhys.” Moxxi tapped her finger against the bar, her long nail clicking against the wood. “This ain’t the first time Tim came back to me lookin’ like that.”

Rhys paused mid-chew. He looked down at his plate.

“It was worse in the beginning,” Moxxi went on. “He came home with blood on his clothes more often than not. I figured maybe his instincts weren’t good. Maybe he couldn’t tell when a John was fixin’ to cause some real damage. I had to assign a guard on him, just to keep him outta trouble.” She sighed, dropped her gaze to the polished surface of her bar. “I haven’t seen him like that in a long time.”

The silence pulled on. Rhys felt pressured to replace it with something. “I’m really sorry to hear that,” he said weakly.

“He’s been actin’ funny lately. He hasn’t been right. Ever since that wedding,” she said. Rhys’ fingers twitched as he reached for the last of his fries. “When he came home the next day, I was kind of happy for him. I knew he wasn’t going to work that night, so I thought maybe… Maybe he found someone nice. That boy could use some nice people in his life. But he wouldn’t tell me. He didn’t talk at all, really.” She licked her lips and looked into Rhys’ blanched face. “You were there. Weren’t ya, Rhys? Did you happen to see anything?”

Rhys stared down at what was left of his dinner. It was easy to forget, under all of Moxxi’s honeyed tones, her painted face, all of her put-on accent and the cleavage up to her chin, that she was smart. Certainly, she was a lot smarter than Rhys was in that moment.

“Can I…” He cleared his throat. “Can I go see him, Moxxi?”

She gave him a long look, her expression unreadable. “I’m his boss, Rhys. Not his ma. He’s off the clock and free to do whatever he likes. You can head on up and knock on his door. It’s up to him if he lets you in.”

Rhys nodded and slipped off the stool. “Thanks, Moxxi.”

“No problem, sugar,” she said, watching him as he made for the door. “Try to be gentle, okay? That boy’s been through a lot tonight.”

Rhys promised he would do his best.

* * *

Rhys didn’t know what he expected. More red, maybe. More velvet. More of that same soft, warm atmosphere from the bar downstairs. But the hallway lined with doors looked like any other apartment hallway. It looked like a place where Moxxi’s employees lived, rather than worked.

Rhys stood in front of Tim’s door for an entire minute, his hand poised above the number 16.

What the hell was he doing here? He didn’t owe Tim anything, not really. Alright, maybe it’d been shitty to leave Tim without saying a word to him. Maybe it’d been really shitty. But Rhys wasn’t the sort of person to let guilt motivate him into doing something. His hand sank.

He’d helped Tim out against his attackers. He’d given him a ride home. Wasn’t that enough? It’s not like he’d hurt Tim, before. Really, he’d barely done anything wrong. Leaving after a one-night stand was kind of rotten, but people did it all the time. Rhys wasn’t a good person. He didn’t have to be here.

_“I had fun tonight, Rhys,” Tim said, voice heavy with exhaustion and spent pleasure._

_Rhys might’ve giggled. “No kidding,” he said._

_Tim smiled. “I’m not just talking about this,” he said, his hand squeezing Rhys’ naked hip. “I mean… all of it. Before. Talking to you. S’nice.”_

_Rhys yawned and cuddled. “You’re nice,” he murmured._

_“I’m really not,” Tim said, nosing at Rhys’ cheek. “It’s been a long time since I’ve gotten to talk to anyone like that.”_

_Rhys mumbled something he couldn’t even remember, already well on his way to sleep. He could remember feeling Tim’s lips brush against his, soft as an exhale._

Rhys sighed. He pushed his hand through his hair, careless of all the hard work he’d put into the style only hours before. Without looking, he knocked on the door.

“Come in,” came the muffled response.

The lock disengaged with a cheerful three-note tune. There would be no turning back, now. Whatever happened, would happen. Rhys took a breath and entered.

Tim’s apartment was small, and it looked like a hotel room. There was no kitchen, but there was a sideboard with a kettle and a hot plate. There was a dresser, a chair, and a large bed. A tablet sat beside a lamp on the nightstand, and that, as far as Rhys could tell, was it for personal affects.

A door sat open off to one side, and Rhys could smell the steam from a recent shower. He could hear things being capped and uncapped, hear the tap running and water splashing. From his vantage at the entrance, Rhys could even see a sliver of the mirror sitting above the bathroom sink, see flashes of Tim’s face and body in the fogged glass.

“If you’ve come here for a lecture, you can save it,” Tim said. “I already know I fucked up. If you want to assign a guard on me again, we can talk about it in the morning, when my head isn’t killing me. And yes, I know whose fault that is. I don’t need ‘I told you so’s right now.”

“What do you need?” Rhys asked.

Tim stopped moving. He stopped speaking. For a while, the only thing that came out of the bathroom was thinning clouds of steam and the bright light. It was so silent and still that Rhys could hear it when Tim inhaled long and sharp.

He emerged from the bathroom a moment later, wearing a pair of black boxer briefs and a towel around his neck. And it was Rhys’ turn to breathe in sharply, because Tim was a mess. There were ugly bruises on his chest and arms, shadows of red and blue and purple. The ugliest was on his hip, a purple and blue smear almost as large as Rhys’ head.

There were more bruises on his face, including an ugly red bloom on his jaw, and another on his cheek. The cut had been sealed together, its edges white and puckered, cleaned and bloodless.

Tim smelled like antiseptic ointments, and the skin over each bruise was shiny with the topical healing creams they sold at every corner store on Pandora.

Tim’s jaw was tight. It looked like it must’ve been sore. His red and raw knuckles popped as he clenched his hands into fists.

“Rhys,” he said, calm and quiet. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see if you were okay,” Rhys said, which felt true enough.

Tim’s nostrils flared. “I’m fine. All right?” He walked over to his dresser, one hand scrubbing at his damp hair with the towel.

“Not really,” Rhys said, which was also very true. He hadn’t thought this far ahead. He had no idea what he should say now. He thought maybe he should talk about the wedding, but every time he tried to summon the words, they dried up long before they could get to his mouth.

“You don’t seem fine,” he said weakly.

Tim sighed, his shoulders drooping. “Look.” He turned to Rhys, a familiar smile back in place. “I get it, okay? You don’t have to feel guilty. I appreciate your help back there, and I’m thankful for the ride home. You don’t owe me anything else, Rhys.”

Rhys wrapped his arms around his middle and looked down at his feet. “I just…” He swallowed. He could do this. He _would_ do this. “After the wedding. I mean, when I left you…”

“It’s fine,” Tim said. “You don’t owe me an explanation. We had fun. You got your freebie. And now we’re square.”

Rhys flinched like he’d been slapped. He looked up at Tim, face burning. “You think—?” he tried, but he choked on his words.

Tim leaned back against his dresser and folded his arms, that infuriating smile still in place. Like he was enjoying a private joke.

“C’mon, Rhys. We both know what that night was.” He laughed as Rhys sputtered. “I’m telling you, I don’t care. Everything’s fine, right? You paid me back.” His grin grew teeth. “Nice job with that baton, by the way. Basil never saw you coming.”

Rhys stared at him, at a loss for words. Tim looked and sounded like he used to, back when Rhys still hired him. The way he’d sounded when he first came to Rhys’ apartment. Aloof. Untouchable.

“Anyway, if that’s all…” Tim straightened up. “No offense, but I’d really like to get some sleep. It’s been a hell of a night.” He stretched his arms above his head and yawned.

It was fine. Tim was… fine. Rhys hadn’t hurt him at all.

Rhys gaze fell to Tim’s chest, as it usually did. The bright light from the bathroom hit Tim’s body, giving him more definition than Rhys was used to seeing. He wasn’t often afforded the chance to see Tim in the light like this. This might’ve been the last time.

Rhys’ gaze fell to Tim’s hips. And then he saw it.

Tim put his hands on his hips and cocked his head. “Uh, Rhys? In case you missed it, I was trying to kick you out just now.”

Rhys didn’t reply. He felt as if his head was filling with hot air. He stared at the scarring on Tim’s left side. A collection of pink and shiny marks, like a splatter. Like the discharge from a corrosive weapon.

It could’ve been a coincidence. Plenty of people used corrosive rounds. Tim could’ve gotten hit in the same place as Jack.

It could’ve been a coincidence. But Rhys knew it wasn’t. A lot of things suddenly made sense.

“Rhys, seriously. I know it looks bad, but it’s not. This is nothing,” Tim said. “I’m fine.”

Something inside Rhys snapped, clearing out all the fuzz and alcohol. He looked up at Tim’s face.

“Say it again,” he said.

Tim’s expression froze.

Rhys walked forward. Tim stepped back.

“What the hell…?” His legs hit the edge of his bed. He sat down hard. Rhys stood over him.

“Say it again,” Rhys repeated.

Tim was a good actor, Rhys knew, but there was something happening to his expression. He licked his lips and smiled.

“I’m fine,” he said.

Rhys took his chin in his cybernetic hand and tipped his bruised face up. “Again,” he said.

Tim puffed out a breath like a laugh, smiling like he was in on a joke. “I’m _fine_.”

Rhys leaned over Tim. He braced his other hand on the mattress beside him, until he could stand between Tim’s knees.

“One more time,” Rhys suggested.

Tim’s nostrils flared. He tried to jerk his head back, a small movement Rhys could easily ignore. He tightened his grip.

“I’m fine.” Tim’s voice trembled. The lines around his smiling mouth tightened.

Rhys moved closer, until there were scarce inches between them and he could feel his breath mingle with Tim’s. “Tim,” he said, the word soft against Tim’s lips. “Tell me again.”

The eyes weren’t the windows to the soul, but if they were, Rhys could imagine all the ugly things he might find hiding behind Tim’s. Tim’s throat worked in a swallow. He opened his mouth.

“I’m…” His one good eye turned glassy. The pupil shrank. He opened his mouth again, but no sound emerged.

All at once, he broke.

He smacked Rhys’ arm away, stood up with a suddenness that made Rhys stumble back, nearly made him fall over.

Tim turned away, breathing hard, with both hands over his face. His scarred and freckled shoulders trembled, his head bowed. Like he was trying to hide from Rhys.

Rhys waited. He didn’t know what to do next, so he did nothing at all. He gave Tim his space. His blood thundered in his ears, his hands curled into tight fists. He wanted a lot of things from Tim in that moment, but he knew better than to push. Not once did he consider leaving.

Finally, Tim laughed, the sound painful and choked.

“You got me, Rhys!” He really didn’t sound good. “You got me. You figured it out. It was me you were with, all those years ago. At the factory on Eris. It was me.” He sucked in a hitching breath. “Are you happy?”

Rhys wasn’t. He was shaking. He took one step towards Tim. Tim flinched away from the sound before he could even get close.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Rhys asked, voice tight.

Tim laughed again, and sounded no better for it. He dropped one hand and scrubbed at his face with the other. “Jesus. Isn’t it obvious? I was ashamed. You wanted the real deal and you got Diet Jack. I took advantage of you. Of—of your crush. I didn’t even have a good reason.”

 _Not even a good reason for it_. Rhys felt tension winding up his spine, plucking at his nerves. He could feel the weight of his baton in his inside pocket, like a reminder.

Rhys had enough money to make a lot of problems go away. And he’d already taken one life tonight. If Tim got ideas, Rhys could take care of him. It might annoy Moxxie, and maybe Athena, but Tim had no one else.

A sliver of sympathy cut through the red haze in Rhys’ mind, unwelcome and unwanted, and Rhys’ grip on his anger weakened. He clenched his jaw and tried to get his thoughts right.

“Why did you do it?” Rhys asked. He didn’t reach for the baton, not yet. He told himself it was because Tim didn’t look interested in a fight.

Tim sniffed. “Because—” He broke off, breath catching. It took a moment before he could speak again. Rhys felt another drop of sympathy, cold as melting ice. “Because I felt shitty. Because I was lonely. Because I hated my job. My—my life. And you just seemed so… I don’t know. Sad. Scared. I thought I knew a thing or two about that. I thought maybe I could do something for you that the real Jack never could.” He tried to laugh again, the sound watery and weak.

He stared at Tim’s exposed back and tried to understand how Tim’s words made him feel.  “That’s it? You used me because you were _sad?_ ”

Tim flinched at Rhys’ words but said nothing.

“Do you know what I went through? What it felt like after that night, when I met Jack again? When he looked right through me?” To Rhys’ humiliation, his voice had begun to shake. “I thought he—“ Didn’t care. Never did. And Rhys realised that was true. The real Jack hadn’t cared at all for Rhys. He’d used him for his own ends. He was prepared to hollow him out and eat him alive. Rhys had never meant a thing to Handsome Jack.

Rhys tried to breathe through it, but the revelation was a forest fire behind his eyes, clearing out the diseased overgrowth. It hurt, but it was almost worth it. Everything made sense, now. Everything with Jack had been a lie, a fantasy. Jack hadn’t forgotten him. There was nothing to forget.

Rhys watched Tim. The anger was still there, but it’d gotten easier to focus through it. He felt smooth inside, glassed earth after the bomb landed.

“That night with you…” Tim said softly, drawing Rhys’ attention. “That was the first time in a long time that I… That I acted like myself. And you… Fuck. I really did want to help you, Rhys. Be a hero for once. And I thought you liked me. I needed it. I didn’t—“ His voice hitched. “I didn’t realise how badly I did until I heard you calling out Jack’s name.” He sniffed again, rubbed at his face. “I’m not… trying to make excuses. There’s nothing I could say that would make it any better. I did something terrible to you, Rhys. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Rhys digested that in silence, letting the seconds tick by. Each one felt like a step away from the blast crater. The once roar of anger within him became a distant rumble, and Rhys found he didn’t miss it. Moreover, he realised that he didn’t _need_ it.

“You let me hire you,” Rhys said, quiet.

Tim didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice sounded small. “I… shouldn’t have. I wanted to see you again. I wanted to know…” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Fuck,” he muttered. “How could I ever be mad at you for leaving me at the hotel, Rhys? When I was no better?”

Rhys had nothing to say to that.

Tim sniffed and rubbed at his nose. He took a few gulping breaths, tried to pull himself together.

“Okay,” he spoke through a gasp. “Okay. So. That’s it, right? You got what you wanted? We’re done? Cause I wasn’t kidding before.” His voice shook. “It’s been a bad night. And I’m really fucking tired, Rhys. Just leave, okay? I am sorry about what I did, but I’ve got nothing else for you. Just… go.”

Rhys saw it again, that branching path. The two futures laid out before him.

He could leave. Tim was right. He’d gotten what he wanted, even though he hadn’t known that he’d even wanted that until tonight. Rhys had hurt Tim, but Tim had hurt Rhys too. They really were square.

Rhys could walk out of the room, let the door close and lock behind him. He could leave Moxxi’s bar, leave New Shush, get into his car and head straight back to his own apartment. Crawl into his own bed and try to sleep. Wake up the next morning and live his life. Everything back to normal. A five-year mystery solved.

Rhys could leave Tim. That might’ve been the best thing he could do for himself.

“I don’t want to,” Rhys said. Tim tensed.

“I’ve… I’ve got nothing else for you, Rhys,” he said as Rhys stepped closer. “I mean it. I’ve told you everything. I don’t know—” Rhys touched his shoulder, causing him to jump. He touched his other hand lightly to Tim’s waist, lay his forehead down on Tim’s back.

Tim felt so tense under him. Trembling like a struck chord.

“I always wondered about that night. How kind ‘Jack’ was. It seemed so out of character.” Tim sniffed. Rhys slipped his hand over Tim’s stomach. He could feel each shivering, hitching breath. “When I met Jack again, it was like it never happened at all. I was nobody to him. It never made sense.” Rhys could hear the slight tremor in his own voice. “How could Jack have forgotten me? It hurt.”

“I’m sorry,” Tim said.

“I know,” Rhys said. “I am too.”

Tim said nothing.

“Can we sit down? I just want to talk,” Rhys said.

Tim still wouldn’t speak, but he didn’t resist as Rhys lead him back to the bed. Tim sat down on the edge of the mattress. He refused to look at Rhys, keeping his head bowed, his face buried in his hands. Rhys pulled his only other chair close and sat down opposite Tim. He wanted to be close to Tim, but somehow having them both on the bed put the wrong tone on the night.

Tim seemed to relax a little at the distance. He looked up at Rhys from the edges of his fingers. His undamaged eye was red rimmed and glassy.

This future he’d chosen looked messy. The conversations ahead of them looked long and painful. The road to building trust somehow longer and more painful. It would take so much work, Rhys could already tell. It would be gruelling, and in the process, Rhys would open himself up to a whole new way of getting hurt. He knew it.

And he knew, looking into what little of Tim’s expression he could see, that it would be worth it. He smiled at Tim.

Slowly, and more than a little uncertain, Tim lowered his hands. He didn’t return Rhys’ smile, but he didn’t look away.

They began to talk.

* * *

“I don’t know what you want from me,” Tim said, hours later, his voice heavy with exhaustion and thick with old tears.

Rhys didn’t either, really. He had some ideas. He took Tim’s hand in both of his and held it like it was something fragile.

“I want a second chance,” Rhys replied. “I want what I said before. I want to get to know you, Tim Lawrence. I’m sorry I screwed up before. I won’t do it again.”

They were both on the bed, both lying down, facing each other. Tim had stopped hiding. Rhys had stopped chasing him.

Tim looked down at their joined hands. “Is that all you want?” he asked.

The future ahead of him was a mess, and once again, Rhys felt like a gambler at the roulette table, watching the wheel spin.

Rhys gave him a squeeze. “Let’s start there. And see what happens next.”

* * *

A lot of things happened next. An entire year of things passed them by, before they both arrived here.

The release of Atlas’ new Skyholder line was the smash success Rhys always knew (hoped) it would be. It made obscene amounts of money, filling Atlas’ flagging coffers fit to bursting almost as soon as it hit the intergalactic markets.

Within a week, _Guns and Ammo Weekly_ had declared it the latest and greatest line of weaponry on the market, perfect for the wary settlers looking to stake claims and keep them safe. _The Golden Pistol_ rated the Skyholder series an A, claiming it was the second coming of Atlas style and performance, bringing a sense of class that had been so sorely needed to the weapons market.

Demand skyrocketed. Rhys and the board had to scramble to open new factories, striking deals with Dahl to use their assembly lines, and deals with Tediore to secure their trade routes. Maliwan had practically started beating down Rhys’ door, sending him emails and missives daily, almost hourly, asking for a moment of his time.

Somehow, in all of the madness, Rhys was able to throw together a party. Or, rather, Rhys’ team of assistants and the newly minted Atlas HR were able to put together a massive celebration on remarkably short notice. And Rhys was afforded the credit.

Everyone in Atlas and all their families were invited to spend the evening in the marble and glass lobby of their main building, the only room large enough and nice enough to serve as a venue. Food and pouring stations were set up around the room, and members of the black-vested serving staff glided through the crowds, holding silver trays aloft, smiling every time someone paused them to take a piece, as if it was the only thing they wanted in life.

Rhys took a moment to admire the simple but elegant centrepieces on each copa table, recognizing the hand of his personal assistant in their selection.

He’d arrived almost an hour after the festivities had begun. He made small talk and nibbled on whatever passed hors d’oeuvres came his way. He made a point to seek out the heads of his departments, particularly the ones in munitions and R&D, and offer them personal congratulations, as well as drop hints in their ears about a forthcoming bonus for everyone involved in the project. The sort of grand gesture that made him as popular and beloved as a king during peacetime.

Rhys was enjoying himself. But he knew he would enjoy himself more with some company.

He sipped his wine and cast a discreet glance at the time display. It’d been almost an hour since he’d arrived. That felt like long enough. No one would accuse him of being impolite. He could make a quick speech and then make a quicker get-away. 

A light touch on his arm alerted him to the fact that he was no longer alone. He looked down at his new guest with a smile, discreetly catching the eye of the security guard posted close by.

A petite woman Rhys didn’t recognize stood beside him. She wore a long and lovely dress in robin’s egg blue, with an attractive lace design around the high neck and shoulders. She smiled when their eyes met. She was, Rhys noticed, very pretty.

“Hello,” she said as his face began to heat. “Rhys, right? I hope you don’t mind how forward I’m being.”

“It’s… fine,” he said, a little uncertain. “Do we know each other?”

She laughed, a light and pleasing sound. “Not yet. But perhaps we could become better acquainted? I was sent here by Professor Cheung.” She reached into her clutch—the security guard’s hand began to creep into her jacket—and pulled out a delicate, pearlescent business card. “My name is Veda. I was hired for you this evening.”

Rhys flipped the card over, where Veda’s name was written in cursive blue. Underneath, the phrase ‘Pleasure At Her Finest’ was written like a motto. Or a promise.

“Oh. Oh!” Realisation dawned. “Oh, I see.” Another one of Maliwan’s attempts at wooing Atlas. This felt a little more forward than the extravagant gift baskets they’d been sending.

“Professor Cheung believes an evening can be spent more pleasantly in the company of another,” Veda said.

“I agree,” Rhys said. He flushed when she smiled. “But I’m afraid I can’t accept your services tonight,” he went on quickly. Veda blinked. “I hope that’s alright.”

“Of course it is,” Veda said smoothly, the consummate professional. “I will inform Professor Cheung of your decision.”

“It’s nothing personal,” Rhys said. “I just… I’ve already got someone.” He smiled sheepishly.

She patted him lightly on the arm. “Lucky them.”

Rhys made his speech, congratulated everyone in the room, lead a toast, and then left as quickly as he could before anyone could notice or try to stop him.

He rode the elevator up to the very top of his building, tugging his tie loose as he went, still flushed from his encounter with Veda and from the wine. He had several buttons undone by the time he flashed his security access and entered his apartment.

“Honey!” he sang out, yanking his tie completely off with one hand. “I’m home!”

“Did you have a nice night?” Tim asked without looking up from his tablet. He was curled up on the couch, a blanket spread over his legs, dressed in a soft cotton t-shirt.

“I did.” Rhys leaned over the back of the couch and placed a delicate kiss behind Tim’s ear, catching the strong scent of the ointment he’d applied to Tim’s face a few hours earlier. “I missed you, though.”

Tim tipped his head back and looked at Rhys at last. “Sorry,” he said with a half-smile.

Rhys waved him off. He slid over the back of the couch, onto the cushions beside Tim. “Is your face feeling better?”

Tim marked his place with a tap of his thumb and set the tablet onto the coffee table. “Much better. Thank you again for the assist earlier.” He stretched his legs and Rhys happily took the invitation, climbing on top and curling into his side.

“No thanks required. You know I’ll take any excuse I can to put hands on you, gorgeous,” he said, settling into place.

“Shameless,” Tim said, winding his fingers through Rhys’ hair. Rhys hummed in agreement. “How was it? Was the food good? Did people like the wine selection?”

“It was good. The food was delicious. People loved the wine. Everyone enjoyed themselves,” Rhys said. “I particularly liked the centre pieces my sexy PA picked out.”

Tim huffed. “I spent the least amount of time on the centrepieces. Deciding on the menu was the real beast. Anika from the committee kept demanding she get rights of early approval for every little decision. She kept telling me that we needed a charcuterie board, and then she’d criticize my choice of cheeses. She said passed hors d’eouvres were low class and made us look cheap. She kept trying to get an omelette station approved. Omelettes! For dinner!”

Rhys yawned, his eyes listing shut as he listened to the steady rhythm of Tim’s voice.

“Next time she gives you trouble, just tell her that you’re the boss’ boyfriend and if she has a problem with you, she can take it up with me,” Rhys said, leaning up into Tim’s hand.

“I try not to throw down the ‘I’m sleeping with the CEO’ card too often,” Tim said, obliging Rhys’ silent command and letting his hand fall down to Rhys’ shoulder. Rhys settled into the crook of his neck and sighed happily.

“You’ll never guess what Maliwan sent me this time,” he said.

“Another basket? I liked the brown butter biscuits they sent us in the last one.”

“No, no basket. A prostitute. A woman named Veda,” Rhys said.

“Ah.” Tim tapped his finger against Rhys’ shoulder. “Veda, Veda… Short lady, broad hips? Wears blue?”

“That’s her,” Rhys confirmed. “Friend of yours?”

“Former colleague. She worked for Moxxi when I first started.” Tim went quiet. Rhys could feel his nervous swallow. “She’s supposed to be very good, you know. A lot of satisfied customers.”

Rhys made a noise of disinterest. Curled up in Tim’s embrace, his cheek rubbing against the worn and soft collar of Tim’s favourite shirt, breathing in the scent of his soap (wild sage and jasmine, likely taken from one of the Maliwan baskets), Rhys couldn’t find it in him to care about Veda and her supposed talents.

“You turned her down?” Tim asked, his voice a little rough.

That stirred Rhys from the ledge of his pleasant doze. He craned his head up. “Of course I did,” he said, furrowing his brow. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Tim looked uncomfortable. “She’s very pretty. You’ve mentioned before how much you enjoy celebrating with… with someone else. And I wasn’t able to join you, so…”

Rhys’ jaw twitched, but he refused to let the anger Tim’s words stirred in him show. Recovery was a process, Rhys reminded himself. And Tim was trying his best.

He lowered himself down and kissed Tim on the lips. Tim made a soft noise of pleased surprise and kissed back, leaning up on his elbows and letting his lips part.

“The only person whose company I wanted was yours,” Rhys said, once he’d pulled back. He ran his hand over Tim’s short, ungelled hair, and dropped a kiss to the arch of his scar. “You’re my boyfriend.”

Rhys said it often, as often as he could get away with, because it seemed to him that Tim needed the reminder now and then. It wasn’t that Tim was unfaithful—it was that Tim wasn’t accustomed to being cherished. To being someone’s favourite person.

Every time Rhys reminded him, he looked so pleased, although he tried to hide it. His complexion gave him away, every time.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be with you,” Tim said, sliding his hands up Rhys’ back.

“You’re with me now,” Rhys said, sighing against his lips. “Let’s go to bed.”

Rhys stripped out of his suit with Tim’s assistance. Rhys was happy to fling every article he removed to the ground, but Tim took more care. He unbuttoned Rhys’ shirt without hurry, pulling the garment off and setting it aside. Trousers next, pulling them off Rhys’ legs, guiding Rhys down to the soft comforter. He pressed his large, warm hand flat against the newly bared skin. He kissed Rhys’ soft stomach. Rhys wound his fingers through Tim’s hair, yanking him gently up, until he could kiss his lips.

Rhys slipped out of his briefs and into a set of pajama bottoms. Tim raised an eyebrow, but didn’t fight when Rhys pulled him down beside him. He ignored Tim’s curious look as he settled under the covers, flung one arm around Tim’s midsection.

Rhys knew only a little what sort of pain might come from a bad scar day. He knew about Tim’s limits, even though Tim might try to ignore them. Especially if Tim happened to feel guilty over something that wasn’t his fault.

Tim was trying. Rhys helped him where he could.

With the wine humming warm under his skin, he had no trouble at all with nestling at Tim’s side, resting his head beside Tim’s, letting his eyes slip shut.

“Good night, Tim,” he murmured. He felt it when Tim touched the tips of his fingers to the skin around Rhys’ port, smoothing down the hair at his temple.

“Good night, Rhys.” He brushed his lips against Rhys’ forehead.

Rhys lay in the darkness, listening to Tim’s breathing grow even and heavy. He could feel him, so warm and close, hear the quiet whistle of his exhale which—Rhys knew from experience—would soon become a quiet rumble.

He opened his eyes to see Tim lying across from him, his arm still outstretched and his hand resting on Rhys’ hip. Rhys couldn’t see much of Tim’s face, save for the definition given by the dim blue light that streamed in from the outside, but he could imagine it. All those worry lines smoothed out, lips parted, at ease at last.

Rhys wouldn’t have believed the stories were true, about the feeling of hearts growing too large with an emotion they couldn’t hope to contain, until he felt it himself. Lying there in the dark, listening to Tim breathe, Rhys felt his heart swell. He really did.

“Tim,” he breathed. He felt words crowding in his head, all the things threatening to spill out, but this wasn’t the time or the place for it. Not yet. Instead, he settled with, “I’m really glad I met you.” And meant it.


End file.
